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The Mysterious Affair at Styles
The Mysterious Affair at Styles
The Mysterious Affair at Styles
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*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MYSTERIOUS AFFAIR AT STYLES ***
Contents
CHAPTER I. I GO TO STYLES
CHAPTER II. THE 16TH AND 17TH OF JULY
CHAPTER III. THE NIGHT OF THE TRAGEDY
CHAPTER IV. POIROT INVESTIGATES
CHAPTER V. “IT ISN’T STRYCHNINE, IS IT?”
CHAPTER VI. THE INQUEST
CHAPTER VII. POIROT PAYS HIS DEBTS
CHAPTER VIII. FRESH SUSPICIONS
CHAPTER IX. DR. BAUERSTEIN
CHAPTER X. THE ARREST
CHAPTER XI. THE CASE FOR THE PROSECUTION
CHAPTER XII. THE LAST LINK
CHAPTER XIII. POIROT EXPLAINS
CHAPTER I.
I GO TO STYLES
The intense interest aroused in the public by what was known at the time as
“The Styles Case” has now somewhat subsided. Nevertheless, in view of the
world-wide notoriety which attended it, I have been asked, both by my friend
Poirot and the family themselves, to write an account of the whole story. This,
we trust, will effectually silence the sensational rumours which still persist.
I will therefore briefly set down the circumstances which led to my being
connected with the affair.
I had been invalided home from the Front; and, after spending some months in
a rather depressing Convalescent Home, was given a month’s sick leave. Having
no near relations or friends, I was trying to make up my mind what to do, when I
ran across John Cavendish. I had seen very little of him for some years. Indeed, I
had never known him particularly well. He was a good fifteen years my senior,
for one thing, though he hardly looked his forty-five years. As a boy, though, I
had often stayed at Styles, his mother’s place in Essex.
We had a good yarn about old times, and it ended in his inviting me down to
Styles to spend my leave there.
“The mater will be delighted to see you again—after all those years,” he
added.
“Your mother keeps well?” I asked.
“Oh, yes. I suppose you know that she has married again?”
I am afraid I showed my surprise rather plainly. Mrs. Cavendish, who had
married John’s father when he was a widower with two sons, had been a
handsome woman of middle-age as I remembered her. She certainly could not be
a day less than seventy now. I recalled her as an energetic, autocratic personality,
somewhat inclined to charitable and social notoriety, with a fondness for opening
bazaars and playing the Lady Bountiful. She was a most generous woman, and
possessed a considerable fortune of her own.
Their country-place, Styles Court, had been purchased by Mr. Cavendish early
in their married life. He had been completely under his wife’s ascendancy, so
much so that, on dying, he left the place to her for her lifetime, as well as the
larger part of his income; an arrangement that was distinctly unfair to his two
sons. Their step-mother, however, had always been most generous to them;
indeed, they were so young at the time of their father’s remarriage that they
always thought of her as their own mother.
Lawrence, the younger, had been a delicate youth. He had qualified as a
doctor but early relinquished the profession of medicine, and lived at home
while pursuing literary ambitions; though his verses never had any marked
success.
John practised for some time as a barrister, but had finally settled down to the
more congenial life of a country squire. He had married two years ago, and had
taken his wife to live at Styles, though I entertained a shrewd suspicion that he
would have preferred his mother to increase his allowance, which would have
enabled him to have a home of his own. Mrs. Cavendish, however, was a lady
who liked to make her own plans, and expected other people to fall in with them,
and in this case she certainly had the whip hand, namely: the purse strings.
John noticed my surprise at the news of his mother’s remarriage and smiled
rather ruefully.
“Rotten little bounder too!” he said savagely. “I can tell you, Hastings, it’s
making life jolly difficult for us. As for Evie—you remember Evie?”
“No.”
“Oh, I suppose she was after your time. She’s the mater’s factotum,
companion, Jack of all trades! A great sport—old Evie! Not precisely young and
beautiful, but as game as they make them.”
“You were going to say——?”
“Oh, this fellow! He turned up from nowhere, on the pretext of being a second
cousin or something of Evie’s, though she didn’t seem particularly keen to
acknowledge the relationship. The fellow is an absolute outsider, anyone can see
that. He’s got a great black beard, and wears patent leather boots in all weathers!
But the mater cottoned to him at once, took him on as secretary—you know how
she’s always running a hundred societies?”
I nodded.
“Well, of course the war has turned the hundreds into thousands. No doubt the
fellow was very useful to her. But you could have knocked us all down with a
feather when, three months ago, she suddenly announced that she and Alfred
were engaged! The fellow must be at least twenty years younger than she is! It’s
simply bare-faced fortune hunting; but there you are—she is her own mistress,
and she’s married him.”
“It must be a difficult situation for you all.”
“Difficult! It’s damnable!”
Thus it came about that, three days later, I descended from the train at Styles
St. Mary, an absurd little station, with no apparent reason for existence, perched
up in the midst of green fields and country lanes. John Cavendish was waiting on
the platform, and piloted me out to the car.
“Got a drop or two of petrol still, you see,” he remarked. “Mainly owing to the
mater’s activities.”
The village of Styles St. Mary was situated about two miles from the little
station, and Styles Court lay a mile the other side of it. It was a still, warm day in
early July. As one looked out over the flat Essex country, lying so green and
peaceful under the afternoon sun, it seemed almost impossible to believe that,
not so very far away, a great war was running its appointed course. I felt I had
suddenly strayed into another world. As we turned in at the lodge gates, John
said:
“I’m afraid you’ll find it very quiet down here, Hastings.”
“My dear fellow, that’s just what I want.”
“Oh, it’s pleasant enough if you want to lead the idle life. I drill with the
volunteers twice a week, and lend a hand at the farms. My wife works regularly
‘on the land’. She is up at five every morning to milk, and keeps at it steadily
until lunchtime. It’s a jolly good life taking it all round—if it weren’t for that
fellow Alfred Inglethorp!” He checked the car suddenly, and glanced at his
watch. “I wonder if we’ve time to pick up Cynthia. No, she’ll have started from
the hospital by now.”
“Cynthia! That’s not your wife?”
“No, Cynthia is a protégée of my mother’s, the daughter of an old
schoolfellow of hers, who married a rascally solicitor. He came a cropper, and
the girl was left an orphan and penniless. My mother came to the rescue, and
Cynthia has been with us nearly two years now. She works in the Red Cross
Hospital at Tadminster, seven miles away.”
As he spoke the last words, we drew up in front of the fine old house. A lady
in a stout tweed skirt, who was bending over a flower bed, straightened herself at
our approach.
“Hullo, Evie, here’s our wounded hero! Mr. Hastings—Miss Howard.”
Miss Howard shook hands with a hearty, almost painful, grip. I had an
impression of very blue eyes in a sunburnt face. She was a pleasant-looking
woman of about forty, with a deep voice, almost manly in its stentorian tones,
and had a large sensible square body, with feet to match—these last encased in
good thick boots. Her conversation, I soon found, was couched in the telegraphic
style.
“Weeds grow like house afire. Can’t keep even with ’em. Shall press you in.
Better be careful.”
“I’m sure I shall be only too delighted to make myself useful,” I responded.
“Don’t say it. Never does. Wish you hadn’t later.”
“You’re a cynic, Evie,” said John, laughing. “Where’s tea to-day—inside or
out?”
“Out. Too fine a day to be cooped up in the house.”
“Come on then, you’ve done enough gardening for to-day. ‘The labourer is
worthy of his hire’, you know. Come and be refreshed.”
“Well,” said Miss Howard, drawing off her gardening gloves, “I’m inclined to
agree with you.”
She led the way round the house to where tea was spread under the shade of a
large sycamore.
A figure rose from one of the basket chairs, and came a few steps to meet us.
“My wife, Hastings,” said John.
I shall never forget my first sight of Mary Cavendish. Her tall, slender form,
outlined against the bright light; the vivid sense of slumbering fire that seemed
to find expression only in those wonderful tawny eyes of hers, remarkable eyes,
different from any other woman’s that I have ever known; the intense power of
stillness she possessed, which nevertheless conveyed the impression of a wild
untamed spirit in an exquisitely civilised body—all these things are burnt into
my memory. I shall never forget them.
She greeted me with a few words of pleasant welcome in a low clear voice,
and I sank into a basket chair feeling distinctly glad that I had accepted John’s
invitation. Mrs. Cavendish gave me some tea, and her few quiet remarks
heightened my first impression of her as a thoroughly fascinating woman. An
appreciative listener is always stimulating, and I described, in a humorous
manner, certain incidents of my Convalescent Home, in a way which, I flatter
myself, greatly amused my hostess. John, of course, good fellow though he is,
could hardly be called a brilliant conversationalist.
At that moment a well remembered voice floated through the open French
window near at hand:
“Then you’ll write to the Princess after tea, Alfred? I’ll write to Lady
Tadminster for the second day, myself. Or shall we wait until we hear from the
Princess? In case of a refusal, Lady Tadminster might open it the first day, and
Mrs. Crosbie the second. Then there’s the Duchess—about the school fête.”
There was the murmur of a man’s voice, and then Mrs. Inglethorp’s rose in
reply:
“Yes, certainly. After tea will do quite well. You are so thoughtful, Alfred
dear.”
The French window swung open a little wider, and a handsome white-haired
old lady, with a somewhat masterful cast of features, stepped out of it on to the
lawn. A man followed her, a suggestion of deference in his manner.
Mrs. Inglethorp greeted me with effusion.
“Why, if it isn’t too delightful to see you again, Mr. Hastings, after all these
years. Alfred, darling, Mr. Hastings—my husband.”
I looked with some curiosity at “Alfred darling”. He certainly struck a rather
alien note. I did not wonder at John objecting to his beard. It was one of the
longest and blackest I have ever seen. He wore gold-rimmed pince-nez, and had
a curious impassivity of feature. It struck me that he might look natural on a
stage, but was strangely out of place in real life. His voice was rather deep and
unctuous. He placed a wooden hand in mine and said:
“This is a pleasure, Mr. Hastings.” Then, turning to his wife: “Emily dearest, I
think that cushion is a little damp.”
She beamed fondly on him, as he substituted another with every
demonstration of the tenderest care. Strange infatuation of an otherwise sensible
woman!
With the presence of Mr. Inglethorp, a sense of constraint and veiled hostility
seemed to settle down upon the company. Miss Howard, in particular, took no
pains to conceal her feelings. Mrs. Inglethorp, however, seemed to notice
nothing unusual. Her volubility, which I remembered of old, had lost nothing in
the intervening years, and she poured out a steady flood of conversation, mainly
on the subject of the forthcoming bazaar which she was organizing and which
was to take place shortly. Occasionally she referred to her husband over a
question of days or dates. His watchful and attentive manner never varied. From
the very first I took a firm and rooted dislike to him, and I flatter myself that my
first judgments are usually fairly shrewd.
Presently Mrs. Inglethorp turned to give some instructions about letters to
Evelyn Howard, and her husband addressed me in his painstaking voice:
“Is soldiering your regular profession, Mr. Hastings?”
“No, before the war I was in Lloyd’s.”
“And you will return there after it is over?”
“Perhaps. Either that or a fresh start altogether.”
Mary Cavendish leant forward.
“What would you really choose as a profession, if you could just consult your
inclination?”
“Well, that depends.”
“No secret hobby?” she asked. “Tell me—you’re drawn to something?
Everyone is—usually something absurd.”
“You’ll laugh at me.”
She smiled.
“Perhaps.”
“Well, I’ve always had a secret hankering to be a detective!”
“The real thing—Scotland Yard? Or Sherlock Holmes?”
“Oh, Sherlock Holmes by all means. But really, seriously, I am awfully drawn
to it. I came across a man in Belgium once, a very famous detective, and he quite
inflamed me. He was a marvellous little fellow. He used to say that all good
detective work was a mere matter of method. My system is based on his—
though of course I have progressed rather further. He was a funny little man, a
great dandy, but wonderfully clever.”
“Like a good detective story myself,” remarked Miss Howard. “Lots of
nonsense written, though. Criminal discovered in last chapter. Everyone
dumbfounded. Real crime—you’d know at once.”
“There have been a great number of undiscovered crimes,” I argued.
“Don’t mean the police, but the people that are right in it. The family. You
couldn’t really hoodwink them. They’d know.”
“Then,” I said, much amused, “you think that if you were mixed up in a crime,
say a murder, you’d be able to spot the murderer right off?”
“Of course I should. Mightn’t be able to prove it to a pack of lawyers. But I’m
certain I’d know. I’d feel it in my fingertips if he came near me.”
“It might be a ‘she’,” I suggested.
“Might. But murder’s a violent crime. Associate it more with a man.”
“Not in a case of poisoning.” Mrs. Cavendish’s clear voice startled me. “Dr.
Bauerstein was saying yesterday that, owing to the general ignorance of the
more uncommon poisons among the medical profession, there were probably
countless cases of poisoning quite unsuspected.”
“Why, Mary, what a gruesome conversation!” cried Mrs. Inglethorp. “It makes
me feel as if a goose were walking over my grave. Oh, there’s Cynthia!”
A young girl in V.A.D. uniform ran lightly across the lawn.
“Why, Cynthia, you are late to-day. This is Mr. Hastings—Miss Murdoch.”
Cynthia Murdoch was a fresh-looking young creature, full of life and vigour.
She tossed off her little V.A.D. cap, and I admired the great loose waves of her
auburn hair, and the smallness and whiteness of the hand she held out to claim
her tea. With dark eyes and eyelashes she would have been a beauty.
She flung herself down on the ground beside John, and as I handed her a plate
of sandwiches she smiled up at me.
“Sit down here on the grass, do. It’s ever so much nicer.”
I dropped down obediently.
“You work at Tadminster, don’t you, Miss Murdoch?”
She nodded.
“For my sins.”
“Do they bully you, then?” I asked, smiling.
“I should like to see them!” cried Cynthia with dignity.
“I have got a cousin who is nursing,” I remarked. “And she is terrified of
‘Sisters’.”
“I don’t wonder. Sisters are, you know, Mr. Hastings. They simp-ly are!
You’ve no idea! But I’m not a nurse, thank heaven, I work in the dispensary.”
“How many people do you poison?” I asked, smiling.
Cynthia smiled too.
“Oh, hundreds!” she said.
“Cynthia,” called Mrs. Inglethorp, “do you think you could write a few notes
for me?”
“Certainly, Aunt Emily.”
She jumped up promptly, and something in her manner reminded me that her
position was a dependent one, and that Mrs. Inglethorp, kind as she might be in
the main, did not allow her to forget it.
My hostess turned to me.
“John will show you your room. Supper is at half-past seven. We have given
up late dinner for some time now. Lady Tadminster, our Member’s wife—she
was the late Lord Abbotsbury’s daughter—does the same. She agrees with me
that one must set an example of economy. We are quite a war household; nothing
is wasted here—every scrap of waste paper, even, is saved and sent away in
sacks.”
I expressed my appreciation, and John took me into the house and up the
broad staircase, which forked right and left half-way to different wings of the
building. My room was in the left wing, and looked out over the park.
John left me, and a few minutes later I saw him from my window walking
slowly across the grass arm in arm with Cynthia Murdoch. I heard Mrs.
Inglethorp call “Cynthia” impatiently, and the girl started and ran back to the
house. At the same moment, a man stepped out from the shadow of a tree and
walked slowly in the same direction. He looked about forty, very dark with a
melancholy clean-shaven face. Some violent emotion seemed to be mastering
him. He looked up at my window as he passed, and I recognized him, though he
had changed much in the fifteen years that had elapsed since we last met. It was
John’s younger brother, Lawrence Cavendish. I wondered what it was that had
brought that singular expression to his face.
Then I dismissed him from my mind, and returned to the contemplation of my
own affairs.
The evening passed pleasantly enough; and I dreamed that night of that
enigmatical woman, Mary Cavendish.
The next morning dawned bright and sunny, and I was full of the anticipation
of a delightful visit.
I did not see Mrs. Cavendish until lunch-time, when she volunteered to take
me for a walk, and we spent a charming afternoon roaming in the woods,
returning to the house about five.
As we entered the large hall, John beckoned us both into the smoking-room. I
saw at once by his face that something disturbing had occurred. We followed
him in, and he shut the door after us.
“Look here, Mary, there’s the deuce of a mess. Evie’s had a row with Alfred
Inglethorp, and she’s off.”
“Evie? Off?”
John nodded gloomily.
“Yes; you see she went to the mater, and—Oh,—here’s Evie herself.”
Miss Howard entered. Her lips were set grimly together, and she carried a
small suit-case. She looked excited and determined, and slightly on the
defensive.
“At any rate,” she burst out, “I’ve spoken my mind!”
“My dear Evelyn,” cried Mrs. Cavendish, “this can’t be true!”
Miss Howard nodded grimly.
“True enough! Afraid I said some things to Emily she won’t forget or forgive
in a hurry. Don’t mind if they’ve only sunk in a bit. Probably water off a duck’s
back, though. I said right out: ‘You’re an old woman, Emily, and there’s no fool
like an old fool. The man’s twenty years younger than you, and don’t you fool
yourself as to what he married you for. Money! Well, don’t let him have too
much of it. Farmer Raikes has got a very pretty young wife. Just ask your Alfred
how much time he spends over there.’ She was very angry. Natural! I went on,
‘I’m going to warn you, whether you like it or not. That man would as soon
murder you in your bed as look at you. He’s a bad lot. You can say what you like
to me, but remember what I’ve told you. He’s a bad lot!’”
“What did she say?”
Miss Howard made an extremely expressive grimace.
“‘Darling Alfred’—‘dearest Alfred’—‘wicked calumnies’ —‘wicked
lies’—‘wicked woman’—to accuse her ‘dear husband!’ The sooner I left her
house the better. So I’m off.”
“But not now?”
“This minute!”
For a moment we sat and stared at her. Finally John Cavendish, finding his
persuasions of no avail, went off to look up the trains. His wife followed him,
murmuring something about persuading Mrs. Inglethorp to think better of it.
As she left the room, Miss Howard’s face changed. She leant towards me
eagerly.
“Mr. Hastings, you’re honest. I can trust you?”
I was a little startled. She laid her hand on my arm, and sank her voice to a
whisper.
“Look after her, Mr. Hastings. My poor Emily. They’re a lot of sharks—all of
them. Oh, I know what I’m talking about. There isn’t one of them that’s not hard
up and trying to get money out of her. I’ve protected her as much as I could.
Now I’m out of the way, they’ll impose upon her.”
“Of course, Miss Howard,” I said, “I’ll do everything I can, but I’m sure
you’re excited and overwrought.”
She interrupted me by slowly shaking her forefinger.
“Young man, trust me. I’ve lived in the world rather longer than you have. All
I ask you is to keep your eyes open. You’ll see what I mean.”
The throb of the motor came through the open window, and Miss Howard rose
and moved to the door. John’s voice sounded outside. With her hand on the
handle, she turned her head over her shoulder, and beckoned to me.
“Above all, Mr. Hastings, watch that devil—her husband!”
There was no time for more. Miss Howard was swallowed up in an eager
chorus of protests and good-byes. The Inglethorps did not appear.
As the motor drove away, Mrs. Cavendish suddenly detached herself from the
group, and moved across the drive to the lawn to meet a tall bearded man who
had been evidently making for the house. The colour rose in her cheeks as she
held out her hand to him.
“Who is that?” I asked sharply, for instinctively I distrusted the man.
“That’s Dr. Bauerstein,” said John shortly.
“And who is Dr. Bauerstein?”
“He’s staying in the village doing a rest cure, after a bad nervous breakdown.
He’s a London specialist; a very clever man—one of the greatest living experts
on poisons, I believe.”
“And he’s a great friend of Mary’s,” put in Cynthia, the irrepressible.
John Cavendish frowned and changed the subject.
“Come for a stroll, Hastings. This has been a most rotten business. She always
had a rough tongue, but there is no stauncher friend in England than Evelyn
Howard.”
He took the path through the plantation, and we walked down to the village
through the woods which bordered one side of the estate.
As we passed through one of the gates on our way home again, a pretty young
woman of gipsy type coming in the opposite direction bowed and smiled.
“That’s a pretty girl,” I remarked appreciatively.
John’s face hardened.
“That is Mrs. Raikes.”
“The one that Miss Howard——”
“Exactly,” said John, with rather unnecessary abruptness.
I thought of the white-haired old lady in the big house, and that vivid wicked
little face that had just smiled into ours, and a vague chill of foreboding crept
over me. I brushed it aside.
“Styles is really a glorious old place,” I said to John.
He nodded rather gloomily.
“Yes, it’s a fine property. It’ll be mine some day—should be mine now by
rights, if my father had only made a decent will. And then I shouldn’t be so
damned hard up as I am now.”
“Hard up, are you?”
“My dear Hastings, I don’t mind telling you that I’m at my wits’ end for
money.”
“Couldn’t your brother help you?”
“Lawrence? He’s gone through every penny he ever had, publishing rotten
verses in fancy bindings. No, we’re an impecunious lot. My mother’s always
been awfully good to us, I must say. That is, up to now. Since her marriage, of
course——” he broke off, frowning.
For the first time I felt that, with Evelyn Howard, something indefinable had
gone from the atmosphere. Her presence had spelt security. Now that security
was removed—and the air seemed rife with suspicion. The sinister face of Dr.
Bauerstein recurred to me unpleasantly. A vague suspicion of everyone and
everything filled my mind. Just for a moment I had a premonition of
approaching evil.
CHAPTER II.
THE 16TH AND 17TH OF JULY
I had arrived at Styles on the 5th of July. I come now to the events of the 16th
and 17th of that month. For the convenience of the reader I will recapitulate the
incidents of those days in as exact a manner as possible. They were elicited
subsequently at the trial by a process of long and tedious cross-examinations.
I received a letter from Evelyn Howard a couple of days after her departure,
telling me she was working as a nurse at the big hospital in Middlingham, a
manufacturing town some fifteen miles away, and begging me to let her know if
Mrs. Inglethorp should show any wish to be reconciled.
The only fly in the ointment of my peaceful days was Mrs. Cavendish’s
extraordinary, and, for my part, unaccountable preference for the society of Dr.
Bauerstein. What she saw in the man I cannot imagine, but she was always
asking him up to the house, and often went off for long expeditions with him. I
must confess that I was quite unable to see his attraction.
The 16th of July fell on a Monday. It was a day of turmoil. The famous bazaar
had taken place on Saturday, and an entertainment, in connection with the same
charity, at which Mrs. Inglethorp was to recite a War poem, was to be held that
night. We were all busy during the morning arranging and decorating the Hall in
the village where it was to take place. We had a late luncheon and spent the
afternoon resting in the garden. I noticed that John’s manner was somewhat
unusual. He seemed very excited and restless.
After tea, Mrs. Inglethorp went to lie down to rest before her efforts in the
evening and I challenged Mary Cavendish to a single at tennis.
About a quarter to seven, Mrs. Inglethorp called us that we should be late as
supper was early that night. We had rather a scramble to get ready in time; and
before the meal was over the motor was waiting at the door.
The entertainment was a great success, Mrs. Inglethorp’s recitation receiving
tremendous applause. There were also some tableaux in which Cynthia took
part. She did not return with us, having been asked to a supper party, and to
remain the night with some friends who had been acting with her in the tableaux.
The following morning, Mrs. Inglethorp stayed in bed to breakfast, as she was
rather overtired; but she appeared in her briskest mood about 12.30, and swept
Lawrence and myself off to a luncheon party.
“Such a charming invitation from Mrs. Rolleston. Lady Tadminster’s sister,
you know. The Rollestons came over with the Conqueror—one of our oldest
families.”
Mary had excused herself on the plea of an engagement with Dr. Bauerstein.
We had a pleasant luncheon, and as we drove away Lawrence suggested that
we should return by Tadminster, which was barely a mile out of our way, and
pay a visit to Cynthia in her dispensary. Mrs. Inglethorp replied that this was an
excellent idea, but as she had several letters to write she would drop us there,
and we could come back with Cynthia in the pony-trap.
We were detained under suspicion by the hospital porter, until Cynthia
appeared to vouch for us, looking very cool and sweet in her long white overall.
She took us up to her sanctum, and introduced us to her fellow dispenser, a
rather awe-inspiring individual, whom Cynthia cheerily addressed as “Nibs.”
“What a lot of bottles!” I exclaimed, as my eye travelled round the small
room. “Do you really know what’s in them all?”
“Say something original,” groaned Cynthia. “Every single person who comes
up here says that. We are really thinking of bestowing a prize on the first
individual who does not say: ‘What a lot of bottles!’ And I know the next thing
you’re going to say is: ‘How many people have you poisoned?’”
I pleaded guilty with a laugh.
“If you people only knew how fatally easy it is to poison someone by mistake,
you wouldn’t joke about it. Come on, let’s have tea. We’ve got all sorts of secret
stories in that cupboard. No, Lawrence—that’s the poison cupboard. The big
cupboard—that’s right.”
We had a very cheery tea, and assisted Cynthia to wash up afterwards. We had
just put away the last tea-spoon when a knock came at the door. The
countenances of Cynthia and Nibs were suddenly petrified into a stern and
forbidding expression.
“Come in,” said Cynthia, in a sharp professional tone.
A young and rather scared looking nurse appeared with a bottle which she
proffered to Nibs, who waved her towards Cynthia with the somewhat
enigmatical remark:
“I’m not really here to-day.”
Cynthia took the bottle and examined it with the severity of a judge.
“This should have been sent up this morning.”
“Sister is very sorry. She forgot.”
“Sister should read the rules outside the door.”
I gathered from the little nurse’s expression that there was not the least
likelihood of her having the hardihood to retail this message to the dreaded
“Sister”.
“So now it can’t be done until to-morrow,” finished Cynthia.
“Don’t you think you could possibly let us have it to-night?”
“Well,” said Cynthia graciously, “we are very busy, but if we have time it shall
be done.”
The little nurse withdrew, and Cynthia promptly took a jar from the shelf,
refilled the bottle, and placed it on the table outside the door.
I laughed.
“Discipline must be maintained?”
“Exactly. Come out on our little balcony. You can see all the outside wards
there.”
I followed Cynthia and her friend and they pointed out the different wards to
me. Lawrence remained behind, but after a few moments Cynthia called to him
over her shoulder to come and join us. Then she looked at her watch.
“Nothing more to do, Nibs?”
“No.”
“All right. Then we can lock up and go.”
I had seen Lawrence in quite a different light that afternoon. Compared to
John, he was an astoundingly difficult person to get to know. He was the
opposite of his brother in almost every respect, being unusually shy and
reserved. Yet he had a certain charm of manner, and I fancied that, if one really
knew him well, one could have a deep affection for him. I had always fancied
that his manner to Cynthia was rather constrained, and that she on her side was
inclined to be shy of him. But they were both gay enough this afternoon, and
chatted together like a couple of children.
As we drove through the village, I remembered that I wanted some stamps, so
accordingly we pulled up at the post office.
As I came out again, I cannoned into a little man who was just entering. I
drew aside and apologised, when suddenly, with a loud exclamation, he clasped
me in his arms and kissed me warmly.
“Mon ami Hastings!” he cried. “It is indeed mon ami Hastings!”
“Poirot!” I exclaimed.
I turned to the pony-trap.
“This is a very pleasant meeting for me, Miss Cynthia. This is my old friend,
Monsieur Poirot, whom I have not seen for years.”
“Oh, we know Monsieur Poirot,” said Cynthia gaily. “But I had no idea he
was a friend of yours.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Poirot seriously. “I know Mademoiselle Cynthia. It is by
the charity of that good Mrs. Inglethorp that I am here.” Then, as I looked at him
inquiringly: “Yes, my friend, she had kindly extended hospitality to seven of my
countrypeople who, alas, are refugees from their native land. We Belgians will
always remember her with gratitude.”
Poirot was an extraordinary looking little man. He was hardly more than five
feet, four inches, but carried himself with great dignity. His head was exactly the
shape of an egg, and he always perched it a little on one side. His moustache was
very stiff and military. The neatness of his attire was almost incredible. I believe
a speck of dust would have caused him more pain than a bullet wound. Yet this
quaint dandified little man who, I was sorry to see, now limped badly, had been
in his time one of the most celebrated members of the Belgian police. As a
detective, his flair had been extraordinary, and he had achieved triumphs by
unravelling some of the most baffling cases of the day.
He pointed out to me the little house inhabited by him and his fellow
Belgians, and I promised to go and see him at an early date. Then he raised his
hat with a flourish to Cynthia, and we drove away.
“He’s a dear little man,” said Cynthia. “I’d no idea you knew him.”
“You’ve been entertaining a celebrity unawares,” I replied.
And, for the rest of the way home, I recited to them the various exploits and
triumphs of Hercule Poirot.
We arrived back in a very cheerful mood. As we entered the hall, Mrs.
Inglethorp came out of her boudoir. She looked flushed and upset.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said.
“Is there anything the matter, Aunt Emily?” asked Cynthia.
“Certainly not,” said Mrs. Inglethorp sharply. “What should there be?” Then
catching sight of Dorcas, the parlourmaid, going into the dining-room, she called
to her to bring some stamps into the boudoir.
“Yes, m’m.” The old servant hesitated, then added diffidently: “Don’t you
think, m’m, you’d better get to bed? You’re looking very tired.”
“Perhaps you’re right, Dorcas—yes—no—not now. I’ve some letters I must
finish by post-time. Have you lighted the fire in my room as I told you?”
“Yes, m’m.”
“Then I’ll go to bed directly after supper.”
She went into the boudoir again, and Cynthia stared after her.
“Goodness gracious! I wonder what’s up?” she said to Lawrence.
He did not seem to have heard her, for without a word he turned on his heel
and went out of the house.
I suggested a quick game of tennis before supper and, Cynthia agreeing, I ran
upstairs to fetch my racquet.
Mrs. Cavendish was coming down the stairs. It may have been my fancy, but
she, too, was looking odd and disturbed.
“Had a good walk with Dr. Bauerstein?” I asked, trying to appear as
indifferent as I could.
“I didn’t go,” she replied abruptly. “Where is Mrs. Inglethorp?”
“In the boudoir.”
Her hand clenched itself on the banisters, then she seemed to nerve herself for
some encounter, and went rapidly past me down the stairs across the hall to the
boudoir, the door of which she shut behind her.
As I ran out to the tennis court a few moments later, I had to pass the open
boudoir window, and was unable to help overhearing the following scrap of
dialogue. Mary Cavendish was saying in the voice of a woman desperately
controlling herself:
“Then you won’t show it to me?”
To which Mrs. Inglethorp replied:
“My dear Mary, it has nothing to do with that matter.”
“Then show it to me.”
“I tell you it is not what you imagine. It does not concern you in the least.”
To which Mary Cavendish replied, with a rising bitterness:
“Of course, I might have known you would shield him.”
Cynthia was waiting for me, and greeted me eagerly with:
“I say! There’s been the most awful row! I’ve got it all out of Dorcas.”
“What kind of a row?”
“Between Aunt Emily and him. I do hope she’s found him out at last!”
“Was Dorcas there, then?”
“Of course not. She ‘happened to be near the door’. It was a real old bust-up. I
do wish I knew what it was all about.”
I thought of Mrs. Raikes’s gipsy face, and Evelyn Howard’s warnings, but
wisely decided to hold my peace, whilst Cynthia exhausted every possible
hypothesis, and cheerfully hoped, “Aunt Emily will send him away, and will
never speak to him again.”
I was anxious to get hold of John, but he was nowhere to be seen. Evidently
something very momentous had occurred that afternoon. I tried to forget the few
words I had overheard; but, do what I would, I could not dismiss them altogether
from my mind. What was Mary Cavendish’s concern in the matter?
Mr. Inglethorp was in the drawing-room when I came down to supper. His
face was impassive as ever, and the strange unreality of the man struck me
afresh.
Mrs. Inglethorp came down last. She still looked agitated, and during the meal
there was a somewhat constrained silence. Inglethorp was unusually quiet. As a
rule, he surrounded his wife with little attentions, placing a cushion at her back,
and altogether playing the part of the devoted husband. Immediately after
supper, Mrs. Inglethorp retired to her boudoir again.
“Send my coffee in here, Mary,” she called. “I’ve just five minutes to catch
the post.”
Cynthia and I went and sat by the open window in the drawing-room. Mary
Cavendish brought our coffee to us. She seemed excited.
“Do you young people want lights, or do you enjoy the twilight?” she asked.
“Will you take Mrs. Inglethorp her coffee, Cynthia? I will pour it out.”
“Do not trouble, Mary,” said Inglethorp. “I will take it to Emily.” He poured it
out, and went out of the room carrying it carefully.
Lawrence followed him, and Mrs. Cavendish sat down by us.
We three sat for some time in silence. It was a glorious night, hot and still.
Mrs. Cavendish fanned herself gently with a palm leaf.
“It’s almost too hot,” she murmured. “We shall have a thunderstorm.”
Alas, that these harmonious moments can never endure! My paradise was
rudely shattered by the sound of a well known, and heartily disliked, voice in the
hall.
“Dr. Bauerstein!” exclaimed Cynthia. “What a funny time to come.”
I glanced jealously at Mary Cavendish, but she seemed quite undisturbed, the
delicate pallor of her cheeks did not vary.
In a few moments, Alfred Inglethorp had ushered the doctor in, the latter
laughing, and protesting that he was in no fit state for a drawing-room. In truth,
he presented a sorry spectacle, being literally plastered with mud.
“What have you been doing, doctor?” cried Mrs. Cavendish.
“I must make my apologies,” said the doctor. “I did not really mean to come
in, but Mr. Inglethorp insisted.”
“Well, Bauerstein, you are in a plight,” said John, strolling in from the hall.
“Have some coffee, and tell us what you have been up to.”
“Thank you, I will.” He laughed rather ruefully, as he described how he had
discovered a very rare species of fern in an inaccessible place, and in his efforts
to obtain it had lost his footing, and slipped ignominiously into a neighbouring
pond.
“The sun soon dried me off,” he added, “but I’m afraid my appearance is very
disreputable.”
At this juncture, Mrs. Inglethorp called to Cynthia from the hall, and the girl
ran out.
“Just carry up my despatch-case, will you, dear? I’m going to bed.”
The door into the hall was a wide one. I had risen when Cynthia did, John was
close by me. There were therefore three witnesses who could swear that Mrs.
Inglethorp was carrying her coffee, as yet untasted, in her hand.
My evening was utterly and entirely spoilt by the presence of Dr. Bauerstein.
It seemed to me the man would never go. He rose at last, however, and I
breathed a sigh of relief.
“I’ll walk down to the village with you,” said Mr. Inglethorp. “I must see our
agent over those estate accounts.” He turned to John. “No one need sit up. I will
take the latch-key.”
CHAPTER III.
THE NIGHT OF THE TRAGEDY
To make this part of my story clear, I append the following plan of the first
floor of Styles. The servants’ rooms are reached through the door B. They have
no communication with the right wing, where the Inglethorps’ rooms were
situated.
01
It seemed to be the middle of the night when I was awakened by Lawrence
Cavendish. He had a candle in his hand, and the agitation of his face told me at
once that something was seriously wrong.
“What’s the matter?” I asked, sitting up in bed, and trying to collect my
scattered thoughts.
“We are afraid my mother is very ill. She seems to be having some kind of fit.
Unfortunately she has locked herself in.”
“I’ll come at once.”
I sprang out of bed; and, pulling on a dressing-gown, followed Lawrence
along the passage and the gallery to the right wing of the house.
John Cavendish joined us, and one or two of the servants were standing round
in a state of awe-stricken excitement. Lawrence turned to his brother.
“What do you think we had better do?”
Never, I thought, had his indecision of character been more apparent.
John rattled the handle of Mrs. Inglethorp’s door violently, but with no effect.
It was obviously locked or bolted on the inside. The whole household was
aroused by now. The most alarming sounds were audible from the interior of the
room. Clearly something must be done.
“Try going through Mr. Inglethorp’s room, sir,” cried Dorcas. “Oh, the poor
mistress!”
Suddenly I realized that Alfred Inglethorp was not with us—that he alone had
given no sign of his presence. John opened the door of his room. It was pitch
dark, but Lawrence was following with the candle, and by its feeble light we saw
that the bed had not been slept in, and that there was no sign of the room having
been occupied.
We went straight to the connecting door. That, too, was locked or bolted on
the inside. What was to be done?
“Oh, dear, sir,” cried Dorcas, wringing her hands, “what ever shall we do?”
“We must try and break the door in, I suppose. It’ll be a tough job, though.
Here, let one of the maids go down and wake Baily and tell him to go for Dr.
Wilkins at once. Now then, we’ll have a try at the door. Half a moment, though,
isn’t there a door into Miss Cynthia’s rooms?”
“Yes, sir, but that’s always bolted. It’s never been undone.”
“Well, we might just see.”
He ran rapidly down the corridor to Cynthia’s room. Mary Cavendish was
there, shaking the girl—who must have been an unusually sound sleeper—and
trying to wake her.
In a moment or two he was back.
“No good. That’s bolted too. We must break in the door. I think this one is a
shade less solid than the one in the passage.”
We strained and heaved together. The framework of the door was solid, and
for a long time it resisted our efforts, but at last we felt it give beneath our
weight, and finally, with a resounding crash, it was burst open.
We stumbled in together, Lawrence still holding his candle. Mrs. Inglethorp
was lying on the bed, her whole form agitated by violent convulsions, in one of
which she must have overturned the table beside her. As we entered, however,
her limbs relaxed, and she fell back upon the pillows.
John strode across the room, and lit the gas. Turning to Annie, one of the
housemaids, he sent her downstairs to the dining-room for brandy. Then he went
across to his mother whilst I unbolted the door that gave on the corridor.
I turned to Lawrence, to suggest that I had better leave them now that there
was no further need of my services, but the words were frozen on my lips. Never
have I seen such a ghastly look on any man’s face. He was white as chalk, the
candle he held in his shaking hand was sputtering onto the carpet, and his eyes,
petrified with terror, or some such kindred emotion, stared fixedly over my head
at a point on the further wall. It was as though he had seen something that turned
him to stone. I instinctively followed the direction of his eyes, but I could see
nothing unusual. The still feebly flickering ashes in the grate, and the row of
prim ornaments on the mantelpiece, were surely harmless enough.
The violence of Mrs. Inglethorp’s attack seemed to be passing. She was able
to speak in short gasps.
“Better now—very sudden—stupid of me—to lock myself in.”
A shadow fell on the bed and, looking up, I saw Mary Cavendish standing
near the door with her arm around Cynthia. She seemed to be supporting the girl,
who looked utterly dazed and unlike herself. Her face was heavily flushed, and
she yawned repeatedly.
“Poor Cynthia is quite frightened,” said Mrs. Cavendish in a low clear voice.
She herself, I noticed, was dressed in her white land smock. Then it must be later
than I thought. I saw that a faint streak of daylight was showing through the
curtains of the windows, and that the clock on the mantelpiece pointed to close
upon five o’clock.
A strangled cry from the bed startled me. A fresh access of pain seized the
unfortunate old lady. The convulsions were of a violence terrible to behold.
Everything was confusion. We thronged round her, powerless to help or
alleviate. A final convulsion lifted her from the bed, until she appeared to rest
upon her head and her heels, with her body arched in an extraordinary manner.
In vain Mary and John tried to administer more brandy. The moments flew.
Again the body arched itself in that peculiar fashion.
At that moment, Dr. Bauerstein pushed his way authoritatively into the room.
For one instant he stopped dead, staring at the figure on the bed, and, at the same
instant, Mrs. Inglethorp cried out in a strangled voice, her eyes fixed on the
doctor:
“Alfred—Alfred——” Then she fell back motionless on the pillows.
With a stride, the doctor reached the bed, and seizing her arms worked them
energetically, applying what I knew to be artificial respiration. He issued a few
short sharp orders to the servants. An imperious wave of his hand drove us all to
the door. We watched him, fascinated, though I think we all knew in our hearts
that it was too late, and that nothing could be done now. I could see by the
expression on his face that he himself had little hope.
Finally he abandoned his task, shaking his head gravely. At that moment, we
heard footsteps outside, and Dr. Wilkins, Mrs. Inglethorp’s own doctor, a portly,
fussy little man, came bustling in.
In a few words Dr. Bauerstein explained how he had happened to be passing
the lodge gates as the car came out, and had run up to the house as fast as he
could, whilst the car went on to fetch Dr. Wilkins. With a faint gesture of the
hand, he indicated the figure on the bed.
“Ve—ry sad. Ve—ry sad,” murmured Dr. Wilkins. “Poor dear lady. Always
did far too much—far too much—against my advice. I warned her. Her heart
was far from strong. ‘Take it easy,’ I said to her, ‘Take—it—easy’. But no—her
zeal for good works was too great. Nature rebelled. Na—ture—re—belled.”
Dr. Bauerstein, I noticed, was watching the local doctor narrowly. He still kept
his eyes fixed on him as he spoke.
“The convulsions were of a peculiar violence, Dr. Wilkins. I am sorry you
were not here in time to witness them. They were quite—tetanic in character.”
“Ah!” said Dr. Wilkins wisely.
“I should like to speak to you in private,” said Dr. Bauerstein. He turned to
John. “You do not object?”
“Certainly not.”
We all trooped out into the corridor, leaving the two doctors alone, and I heard
the key turned in the lock behind us.
We went slowly down the stairs. I was violently excited. I have a certain talent
for deduction, and Dr. Bauerstein’s manner had started a flock of wild surmises
in my mind. Mary Cavendish laid her hand upon my arm.
“What is it? Why did Dr. Bauerstein seem so—peculiar?”
I looked at her.
“Do you know what I think?”
“What?”
“Listen!” I looked round, the others were out of earshot. I lowered my voice to
a whisper. “I believe she has been poisoned! I’m certain Dr. Bauerstein suspects
it.”
“What?” She shrank against the wall, the pupils of her eyes dilating wildly.
Then, with a sudden cry that startled me, she cried out: “No, no—not that—not
that!” And breaking from me, fled up the stairs. I followed her, afraid that she
was going to faint. I found her leaning against the bannisters, deadly pale. She
waved me away impatiently.
“No, no—leave me. I’d rather be alone. Let me just be quiet for a minute or
two. Go down to the others.”
I obeyed her reluctantly. John and Lawrence were in the dining-room. I joined
them. We were all silent, but I suppose I voiced the thoughts of us all when I at
last broke it by saying:
“Where is Mr. Inglethorp?”
John shook his head.
“He’s not in the house.”
Our eyes met. Where was Alfred Inglethorp? His absence was strange and
inexplicable. I remembered Mrs. Inglethorp’s dying words. What lay beneath
them? What more could she have told us, if she had had time?
At last we heard the doctors descending the stairs. Dr. Wilkins was looking
important and excited, and trying to conceal an inward exultation under a
manner of decorous calm. Dr. Bauerstein remained in the background, his grave
bearded face unchanged. Dr. Wilkins was the spokesman for the two. He
addressed himself to John:
“Mr. Cavendish, I should like your consent to a post-mortem.”
“Is that necessary?” asked John gravely. A spasm of pain crossed his face.
“Absolutely,” said Dr. Bauerstein.
“You mean by that——?”
“That neither Dr. Wilkins nor myself could give a death certificate under the
circumstances.”
John bent his head.
“In that case, I have no alternative but to agree.”
“Thank you,” said Dr. Wilkins briskly. “We propose that it should take place
to-morrow night—or rather to-night.” And he glanced at the daylight. “Under
the circumstances, I am afraid an inquest can hardly be avoided—these
formalities are necessary, but I beg that you won’t distress yourselves.”
There was a pause, and then Dr. Bauerstein drew two keys from his pocket,
and handed them to John.
“These are the keys of the two rooms. I have locked them and, in my opinion,
they would be better kept locked for the present.”
The doctors then departed.
I had been turning over an idea in my head, and I felt that the moment had
now come to broach it. Yet I was a little chary of doing so. John, I knew, had a
horror of any kind of publicity, and was an easygoing optimist, who preferred
never to meet trouble half-way. It might be difficult to convince him of the
soundness of my plan. Lawrence, on the other hand, being less conventional, and
having more imagination, I felt I might count upon as an ally. There was no
doubt that the moment had come for me to take the lead.
“John,” I said, “I am going to ask you something.”
“Well?”
“You remember my speaking of my friend Poirot? The Belgian who is here?
He has been a most famous detective.”
“Yes.”
“I want you to let me call him in—to investigate this matter.”
“What—now? Before the post-mortem?”
“Yes, time is an advantage if—if—there has been foul play.”
“Rubbish!” cried Lawrence angrily. “In my opinion the whole thing is a
mare’s nest of Bauerstein’s! Wilkins hadn’t an idea of such a thing, until
Bauerstein put it into his head. But, like all specialists, Bauerstein’s got a bee in
his bonnet. Poisons are his hobby, so of course he sees them everywhere.”
I confess that I was surprised by Lawrence’s attitude. He was so seldom
vehement about anything.
John hesitated.
“I can’t feel as you do, Lawrence,” he said at last. “I’m inclined to give
Hastings a free hand, though I should prefer to wait a bit. We don’t want any
unnecessary scandal.”
“No, no,” I cried eagerly, “you need have no fear of that. Poirot is discretion
itself.”
“Very well, then, have it your own way. I leave it in your hands. Though, if it
is as we suspect, it seems a clear enough case. God forgive me if I am wronging
him!”
I looked at my watch. It was six o’clock. I determined to lose no time.
Five minutes’ delay, however, I allowed myself. I spent it in ransacking the
library until I discovered a medical book which gave a description of strychnine
poisoning.
CHAPTER IV.
POIROT INVESTIGATES
The house which the Belgians occupied in the village was quite close to the
park gates. One could save time by taking a narrow path through the long grass,
which cut off the detours of the winding drive. So I, accordingly, went that way.
I had nearly reached the lodge, when my attention was arrested by the running
figure of a man approaching me. It was Mr. Inglethorp. Where had he been?
How did he intend to explain his absence?
He accosted me eagerly.
“My God! This is terrible! My poor wife! I have only just heard.”
“Where have you been?” I asked.
“Denby kept me late last night. It was one o’clock before we’d finished. Then
I found that I’d forgotten the latch-key after all. I didn’t want to arouse the
household, so Denby gave me a bed.”
“How did you hear the news?” I asked.
“Wilkins knocked Denby up to tell him. My poor Emily! She was so self-
sacrificing—such a noble character. She over-taxed her strength.”
A wave of revulsion swept over me. What a consummate hypocrite the man
was!
“I must hurry on,” I said, thankful that he did not ask me whither I was bound.
In a few minutes I was knocking at the door of Leastways Cottage.
Getting no answer, I repeated my summons impatiently. A window above me
was cautiously opened, and Poirot himself looked out.
He gave an exclamation of surprise at seeing me. In a few brief words, I
explained the tragedy that had occurred, and that I wanted his help.
“Wait, my friend, I will let you in, and you shall recount to me the affair
whilst I dress.”
In a few moments he had unbarred the door, and I followed him up to his
room. There he installed me in a chair, and I related the whole story, keeping
back nothing, and omitting no circumstance, however insignificant, whilst he
himself made a careful and deliberate toilet.
I told him of my awakening, of Mrs. Inglethorp’s dying words, of her
husband’s absence, of the quarrel the day before, of the scrap of conversation
between Mary and her mother-in-law that I had overheard, of the former quarrel
between Mrs. Inglethorp and Evelyn Howard, and of the latter’s innuendoes.
I was hardly as clear as I could wish. I repeated myself several times, and
occasionally had to go back to some detail that I had forgotten. Poirot smiled
kindly on me.
“The mind is confused? Is it not so? Take time, mon ami. You are agitated;
you are excited—it is but natural. Presently, when we are calmer, we will arrange
the facts, neatly, each in his proper place. We will examine—and reject. Those of
importance we will put on one side; those of no importance, pouf!”—he screwed
up his cherub-like face, and puffed comically enough—“blow them away!”
“That’s all very well,” I objected, “but how are you going to decide what is
important, and what isn’t? That always seems the difficulty to me.”
Poirot shook his head energetically. He was now arranging his moustache with
exquisite care.
“Not so. Voyons! One fact leads to another—so we continue. Does the next fit
in with that? A merveille! Good! We can proceed. This next little fact—no! Ah,
that is curious! There is something missing—a link in the chain that is not there.
We examine. We search. And that little curious fact, that possibly paltry little
detail that will not tally, we put it here!” He made an extravagant gesture with
his hand. “It is significant! It is tremendous!”
“Y—es——”
“Ah!” Poirot shook his forefinger so fiercely at me that I quailed before it.
“Beware! Peril to the detective who says: ‘It is so small—it does not matter. It
will not agree. I will forget it.’ That way lies confusion! Everything matters.”
“I know. You always told me that. That’s why I have gone into all the details
of this thing whether they seemed to me relevant or not.”
“And I am pleased with you. You have a good memory, and you have given
me the facts faithfully. Of the order in which you present them, I say nothing—
truly, it is deplorable! But I make allowances—you are upset. To that I attribute
the circumstance that you have omitted one fact of paramount importance.”
“What is that?” I asked.
“You have not told me if Mrs. Inglethorp ate well last night.”
I stared at him. Surely the war had affected the little man’s brain. He was
carefully engaged in brushing his coat before putting it on, and seemed wholly
engrossed in the task.
“I don’t remember,” I said. “And, anyway, I don’t see——”
“You do not see? But it is of the first importance.”
“I can’t see why,” I said, rather nettled. “As far as I can remember, she didn’t
eat much. She was obviously upset, and it had taken her appetite away. That was
only natural.”
“Yes,” said Poirot thoughtfully, “it was only natural.”
He opened a drawer, and took out a small despatch-case, then turned to me.
“Now I am ready. We will proceed to the château, and study matters on the
spot. Excuse me, mon ami, you dressed in haste, and your tie is on one side.
Permit me.” With a deft gesture, he rearranged it.
“Ça y est! Now, shall we start?”
We hurried up the village, and turned in at the lodge gates. Poirot stopped for
a moment, and gazed sorrowfully over the beautiful expanse of park, still
glittering with morning dew.
“So beautiful, so beautiful, and yet, the poor family, plunged in sorrow,
prostrated with grief.”
He looked at me keenly as he spoke, and I was aware that I reddened under
his prolonged gaze.
Was the family prostrated by grief? Was the sorrow at Mrs. Inglethorp’s death
so great? I realized that there was an emotional lack in the atmosphere. The dead
woman had not the gift of commanding love. Her death was a shock and a
distress, but she would not be passionately regretted.
Poirot seemed to follow my thoughts. He nodded his head gravely.
“No, you are right,” he said, “it is not as though there was a blood tie. She has
been kind and generous to these Cavendishes, but she was not their own mother.
Blood tells—always remember that—blood tells.”
“Poirot,” I said, “I wish you would tell me why you wanted to know if Mrs.
Inglethorp ate well last night? I have been turning it over in my mind, but I can’t
see how it has anything to do with the matter?”
He was silent for a minute or two as we walked along, but finally he said:
“I do not mind telling you—though, as you know, it is not my habit to explain
until the end is reached. The present contention is that Mrs. Inglethorp died of
strychnine poisoning, presumably administered in her coffee.”
“Yes?”
“Well, what time was the coffee served?”
“About eight o’clock.”
“Therefore she drank it between then and half-past eight—certainly not much
later. Well, strychnine is a fairly rapid poison. Its effects would be felt very soon,
probably in about an hour. Yet, in Mrs. Inglethorp’s case, the symptoms do not
manifest themselves until five o’clock the next morning: nine hours! But a heavy
meal, taken at about the same time as the poison, might retard its effects, though
hardly to that extent. Still, it is a possibility to be taken into account. But,
according to you, she ate very little for supper, and yet the symptoms do not
develop until early the next morning! Now that is a curious circumstance, my
friend. Something may arise at the autopsy to explain it. In the meantime,
remember it.”
As we neared the house, John came out and met us. His face looked weary
and haggard.
“This is a very dreadful business, Monsieur Poirot,” he said. “Hastings has
explained to you that we are anxious for no publicity?”
“I comprehend perfectly.”
“You see, it is only suspicion so far. We have nothing to go upon.”
“Precisely. It is a matter of precaution only.”
John turned to me, taking out his cigarette-case, and lighting a cigarette as he
did so.
“You know that fellow Inglethorp is back?”
“Yes. I met him.”
John flung the match into an adjacent flower bed, a proceeding which was too
much for Poirot’s feelings. He retrieved it, and buried it neatly.
“It’s jolly difficult to know how to treat him.”
“That difficulty will not exist long,” pronounced Poirot quietly.
John looked puzzled, not quite understanding the portent of this cryptic
saying. He handed the two keys which Dr. Bauerstein had given him to me.
“Show Monsieur Poirot everything he wants to see.”
“The rooms are locked?” asked Poirot.
“Dr. Bauerstein considered it advisable.”
Poirot nodded thoughtfully.
“Then he is very sure. Well, that simplifies matters for us.”
We went up together to the room of the tragedy. For convenience I append a
plan of the room and the principal articles of furniture in it.
02
Poirot locked the door on the inside, and proceeded to a minute inspection of
the room. He darted from one object to the other with the agility of a
grasshopper. I remained by the door, fearing to obliterate any clues. Poirot,
however, did not seem grateful to me for my forbearance.
“What have you, my friend,” he cried, “that you remain there like—how do
you say it?—ah, yes, the stuck pig?”
I explained that I was afraid of obliterating any foot-marks.
“Foot-marks? But what an idea! There has already been practically an army in
the room! What foot-marks are we likely to find? No, come here and aid me in
my search. I will put down my little case until I need it.”
He did so, on the round table by the window, but it was an ill-advised
proceeding; for, the top of it being loose, it tilted up, and precipitated the
despatch-case on the floor.
“Eh voilà une table!” cried Poirot. “Ah, my friend, one may live in a big
house and yet have no comfort.”
After which piece of moralizing, he resumed his search.
A small purple despatch-case, with a key in the lock, on the writing-table,
engaged his attention for some time. He took out the key from the lock, and
passed it to me to inspect. I saw nothing peculiar, however. It was an ordinary
key of the Yale type, with a bit of twisted wire through the handle.
Next, he examined the framework of the door we had broken in, assuring
himself that the bolt had really been shot. Then he went to the door opposite
leading into Cynthia’s room. That door was also bolted, as I had stated.
However, he went to the length of unbolting it, and opening and shutting it
several times; this he did with the utmost precaution against making any noise.
Suddenly something in the bolt itself seemed to rivet his attention. He examined
it carefully, and then, nimbly whipping out a pair of small forceps from his case,
he drew out some minute particle which he carefully sealed up in a tiny
envelope.
On the chest of drawers there was a tray with a spirit lamp and a small
saucepan on it. A small quantity of a dark fluid remained in the saucepan, and an
empty cup and saucer that had been drunk out of stood near it.
I wondered how I could have been so unobservant as to overlook this. Here
was a clue worth having. Poirot delicately dipped his finger into liquid, and
tasted it gingerly. He made a grimace.
“Cocoa—with—I think—rum in it.”
He passed on to the debris on the floor, where the table by the bed had been
overturned. A reading-lamp, some books, matches, a bunch of keys, and the
crushed fragments of a coffee-cup lay scattered about.
“Ah, this is curious,” said Poirot.
“I must confess that I see nothing particularly curious about it.”
“You do not? Observe the lamp—the chimney is broken in two places; they lie
there as they fell. But see, the coffee-cup is absolutely smashed to powder.”
“Well,” I said wearily, “I suppose someone must have stepped on it.”
“Exactly,” said Poirot, in an odd voice. “Someone stepped on it.”
He rose from his knees, and walked slowly across to the mantelpiece, where
he stood abstractedly fingering the ornaments, and straightening them—a trick
of his when he was agitated.
“Mon ami,” he said, turning to me, “somebody stepped on that cup, grinding it
to powder, and the reason they did so was either because it contained strychnine
or—which is far more serious—because it did not contain strychnine!”
I made no reply. I was bewildered, but I knew that it was no good asking him
to explain. In a moment or two he roused himself, and went on with his
investigations. He picked up the bunch of keys from the floor, and twirling them
round in his fingers finally selected one, very bright and shining, which he tried
in the lock of the purple despatch-case. It fitted, and he opened the box, but after
a moment’s hesitation, closed and relocked it, and slipped the bunch of keys, as
well as the key that had originally stood in the lock, into his own pocket.
“I have no authority to go through these papers. But it should be done—at
once!”
He then made a very careful examination of the drawers of the wash-stand.
Crossing the room to the left-hand window, a round stain, hardly visible on the
dark brown carpet, seemed to interest him particularly. He went down on his
knees, examining it minutely—even going so far as to smell it.
Finally, he poured a few drops of the cocoa into a test tube, sealing it up
carefully. His next proceeding was to take out a little notebook.
“We have found in this room,” he said, writing busily, “six points of interest.
Shall I enumerate them, or will you?”
“Oh, you,” I replied hastily.
“Very well, then. One, a coffee-cup that has been ground into powder; two, a
despatch-case with a key in the lock; three, a stain on the floor.”
“That may have been done some time ago,” I interrupted.
“No, for it is still perceptibly damp and smells of coffee. Four, a fragment of
some dark green fabric—only a thread or two, but recognizable.”
“Ah!” I cried. “That was what you sealed up in the envelope.”
“Yes. It may turn out to be a piece of one of Mrs. Inglethorp’s own dresses,
and quite unimportant. We shall see. Five, this!” With a dramatic gesture, he
pointed to a large splash of candle grease on the floor by the writing-table. “It
must have been done since yesterday, otherwise a good housemaid would have
at once removed it with blotting-paper and a hot iron. One of my best hats once
—but that is not to the point.”
“It was very likely done last night. We were very agitated. Or perhaps Mrs.
Inglethorp herself dropped her candle.”
“You brought only one candle into the room?”
“Yes. Lawrence Cavendish was carrying it. But he was very upset. He seemed
to see something over here”—I indicated the mantelpiece—“that absolutely
paralysed him.”
“That is interesting,” said Poirot quickly. “Yes, it is suggestive”—his eye
sweeping the whole length of the wall—“but it was not his candle that made this
great patch, for you perceive that this is white grease; whereas Monsieur
Lawrence’s candle, which is still on the dressing-table, is pink. On the other
hand, Mrs. Inglethorp had no candlestick in the room, only a reading-lamp.”
“Then,” I said, “what do you deduce?”
To which my friend only made a rather irritating reply, urging me to use my
own natural faculties.
“And the sixth point?” I asked. “I suppose it is the sample of cocoa.”
“No,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “I might have included that in the six, but I did
not. No, the sixth point I will keep to myself for the present.”
He looked quickly round the room. “There is nothing more to be done here, I
think, unless”—he stared earnestly and long at the dead ashes in the grate. “The
fire burns—and it destroys. But by chance—there might be—let us see!”
Deftly, on hands and knees, he began to sort the ashes from the grate into the
fender, handling them with the greatest caution. Suddenly, he gave a faint
exclamation.
“The forceps, Hastings!”
I quickly handed them to him, and with skill he extracted a small piece of half
charred paper.
“There, mon ami!” he cried. “What do you think of that?”
I scrutinized the fragment. This is an exact reproduction of it:—
03
I was puzzled. It was unusually thick, quite unlike ordinary notepaper.
Suddenly an idea struck me.
“Poirot!” I cried. “This is a fragment of a will!”
“Exactly.”
I looked up at him sharply.
“You are not surprised?”
“No,” he said gravely, “I expected it.”
I relinquished the piece of paper, and watched him put it away in his case,
with the same methodical care that he bestowed on everything. My brain was in
a whirl. What was this complication of a will? Who had destroyed it? The person
who had left the candle grease on the floor? Obviously. But how had anyone
gained admission? All the doors had been bolted on the inside.
“Now, my friend,” said Poirot briskly, “we will go. I should like to ask a few
questions of the parlourmaid—Dorcas, her name is, is it not?”
We passed through Alfred Inglethorp’s room, and Poirot delayed long enough
to make a brief but fairly comprehensive examination of it. We went out through
that door, locking both it and that of Mrs. Inglethorp’s room as before.
I took him down to the boudoir which he had expressed a wish to see, and
went myself in search of Dorcas.
When I returned with her, however, the boudoir was empty.
“Poirot,” I cried, “where are you?”
“I am here, my friend.”
He had stepped outside the French window, and was standing, apparently lost
in admiration, before the various shaped flower beds.
“Admirable!” he murmured. “Admirable! What symmetry! Observe that
crescent; and those diamonds—their neatness rejoices the eye. The spacing of
the plants, also, is perfect. It has been recently done; is it not so?”
“Yes, I believe they were at it yesterday afternoon. But come in—Dorcas is
here.”
“Eh bien, eh bien! Do not grudge me a moment’s satisfaction of the eye.”
“Yes, but this affair is more important.”
“And how do you know that these fine begonias are not of equal importance?”
I shrugged my shoulders. There was really no arguing with him if he chose to
take that line.
“You do not agree? But such things have been. Well, we will come in and
interview the brave Dorcas.”
Dorcas was standing in the boudoir, her hands folded in front of her, and her
grey hair rose in stiff waves under her white cap. She was the very model and
picture of a good old-fashioned servant.
In her attitude towards Poirot, she was inclined to be suspicious, but he soon
broke down her defences. He drew forward a chair.
“Pray be seated, mademoiselle.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You have been with your mistress many years, is it not so?”
“Ten years, sir.”
“That is a long time, and very faithful service. You were much attached to her,
were you not?”
“She was a very good mistress to me, sir.”
“Then you will not object to answering a few questions. I put them to you
with Mr. Cavendish’s full approval.”
“Oh, certainly, sir.”
“Then I will begin by asking you about the events of yesterday afternoon.
Your mistress had a quarrel?”
“Yes, sir. But I don’t know that I ought——” Dorcas hesitated.
Poirot looked at her keenly.
“My good Dorcas, it is necessary that I should know every detail of that
quarrel as fully as possible. Do not think that you are betraying your mistress’s
secrets. Your mistress lies dead, and it is necessary that we should know all—if
we are to avenge her. Nothing can bring her back to life, but we do hope, if there
has been foul play, to bring the murderer to justice.”
“Amen to that,” said Dorcas fiercely. “And, naming no names, there’s one in
this house that none of us could ever abide! And an ill day it was when first he
darkened the threshold.”
Poirot waited for her indignation to subside, and then, resuming his business-
like tone, he asked:
“Now, as to this quarrel? What is the first you heard of it?”
“Well, sir, I happened to be going along the hall outside yesterday——”
“What time was that?”
“I couldn’t say exactly, sir, but it wasn’t tea-time by a long way. Perhaps four
o’clock—or it may have been a bit later. Well, sir, as I said, I happened to be
passing along, when I heard voices very loud and angry in here. I didn’t exactly
mean to listen, but—well, there it is. I stopped. The door was shut, but the
mistress was speaking very sharp and clear, and I heard what she said quite
plainly. ‘You have lied to me, and deceived me,’ she said. I didn’t hear what Mr.
Inglethorp replied. He spoke a good bit lower than she did—but she answered:
‘How dare you? I have kept you and clothed you and fed you! You owe
everything to me! And this is how you repay me! By bringing disgrace upon our
name!’ Again I didn’t hear what he said, but she went on: ‘Nothing that you can
say will make any difference. I see my duty clearly. My mind is made up. You
need not think that any fear of publicity, or scandal between husband and wife
will deter me.’ Then I thought I heard them coming out, so I went off quickly.”
“You are sure it was Mr. Inglethorp’s voice you heard?”
“Oh, yes, sir, whose else’s could it be?”
“Well, what happened next?”
“Later, I came back to the hall; but it was all quiet. At five o’clock, Mrs.
Inglethorp rang the bell and told me to bring her a cup of tea—nothing to eat—to
the boudoir. She was looking dreadful—so white and upset. ‘Dorcas,’ she says,
‘I’ve had a great shock.’ ‘I’m sorry for that, m’m,’ I says. ‘You’ll feel better after
a nice hot cup of tea, m’m.’ She had something in her hand. I don’t know if it
was a letter, or just a piece of paper, but it had writing on it, and she kept staring
at it, almost as if she couldn’t believe what was written there. She whispered to
herself, as though she had forgotten I was there: ‘These few words—and
everything’s changed.’ And then she says to me: ‘Never trust a man, Dorcas,
they’re not worth it!’ I hurried off, and got her a good strong cup of tea, and she
thanked me, and said she’d feel better when she’d drunk it. ‘I don’t know what
to do,’ she says. ‘Scandal between husband and wife is a dreadful thing, Dorcas.
I’d rather hush it up if I could.’ Mrs. Cavendish came in just then, so she didn’t
say any more.”
“She still had the letter, or whatever it was, in her hand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What would she be likely to do with it afterwards?”
“Well, I don’t know, sir, I expect she would lock it up in that purple case of
hers.”
“Is that where she usually kept important papers?”
“Yes, sir. She brought it down with her every morning, and took it up every
night.”
“When did she lose the key of it?”
“She missed it yesterday at lunch-time, sir, and told me to look carefully for it.
She was very much put out about it.”
“But she had a duplicate key?”
“Oh, yes, sir.”
Dorcas was looking very curiously at him and, to tell the truth, so was I. What
was all this about a lost key? Poirot smiled.
“Never mind, Dorcas, it is my business to know things. Is this the key that was
lost?” He drew from his pocket the key that he had found in the lock of the
despatch-case upstairs.
Dorcas’s eyes looked as though they would pop out of her head.
“That’s it, sir, right enough. But where did you find it? I looked everywhere
for it.”
“Ah, but you see it was not in the same place yesterday as it was to-day. Now,
to pass to another subject, had your mistress a dark green dress in her
wardrobe?”
Dorcas was rather startled by the unexpected question.
“No, sir.”
“Are you quite sure?”
“Oh, yes, sir.”
“Has anyone else in the house got a green dress?”
Dorcas reflected.
“Miss Cynthia has a green evening dress.”
“Light or dark green?”
“A light green, sir; a sort of chiffon, they call it.”
“Ah, that is not what I want. And nobody else has anything green?”
“No, sir—not that I know of.”
Poirot’s face did not betray a trace of whether he was disappointed or
otherwise. He merely remarked:
“Good, we will leave that and pass on. Have you any reason to believe that
your mistress was likely to take a sleeping powder last night?”
“Not last night, sir, I know she didn’t.”
“Why do you know so positively?”
“Because the box was empty. She took the last one two days ago, and she
didn’t have any more made up.”
“You are quite sure of that?”
“Positive, sir.”
“Then that is cleared up! By the way, your mistress didn’t ask you to sign any
paper yesterday?”
“To sign a paper? No, sir.”
“When Mr. Hastings and Mr. Lawrence came in yesterday evening, they found
your mistress busy writing letters. I suppose you can give me no idea to whom
these letters were addressed?”
“I’m afraid I couldn’t, sir. I was out in the evening. Perhaps Annie could tell
you, though she’s a careless girl. Never cleared the coffee-cups away last night.
That’s what happens when I’m not here to look after things.”
Poirot lifted his hand.
“Since they have been left, Dorcas, leave them a little longer, I pray you. I
should like to examine them.”
“Very well, sir.”
“What time did you go out last evening?”
“About six o’clock, sir.”
“Thank you, Dorcas, that is all I have to ask you.” He rose and strolled to the
window. “I have been admiring these flower beds. How many gardeners are
employed here, by the way?”
“Only three now, sir. Five, we had, before the war, when it was kept as a
gentleman’s place should be. I wish you could have seen it then, sir. A fair sight
it was. But now there’s only old Manning, and young William, and a new-
fashioned woman gardener in breeches and such-like. Ah, these are dreadful
times!”
“The good times will come again, Dorcas. At least, we hope so. Now, will you
send Annie to me here?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“How did you know that Mrs. Inglethorp took sleeping powders?” I asked, in
lively curiosity, as Dorcas left the room. “And about the lost key and the
duplicate?”
“One thing at a time. As to the sleeping powders, I knew by this.” He
suddenly produced a small cardboard box, such as chemists use for powders.
“Where did you find it?”
“In the wash-stand drawer in Mrs. Inglethorp’s bedroom. It was Number Six
of my catalogue.”
“But I suppose, as the last powder was taken two days ago, it is not of much
importance?”
“Probably not, but do you notice anything that strikes you as peculiar about
this box?”
I examined it closely.
“No, I can’t say that I do.”
“Look at the label.”
I read the label carefully: “‘One powder to be taken at bedtime, if required.
Mrs. Inglethorp.’ No, I see nothing unusual.”
“Not the fact that there is no chemist’s name?”
“Ah!” I exclaimed. “To be sure, that is odd!”
“Have you ever known a chemist to send out a box like that, without his
printed name?”
“No, I can’t say that I have.”
I was becoming quite excited, but Poirot damped my ardour by remarking:
“Yet the explanation is quite simple. So do not intrigue yourself, my friend.”
An audible creaking proclaimed the approach of Annie, so I had no time to
reply.
Annie was a fine, strapping girl, and was evidently labouring under intense
excitement, mingled with a certain ghoulish enjoyment of the tragedy.
Poirot came to the point at once, with a business-like briskness.
“I sent for you, Annie, because I thought you might be able to tell me
something about the letters Mrs. Inglethorp wrote last night. How many were
there? And can you tell me any of the names and addresses?”
Annie considered.
“There were four letters, sir. One was to Miss Howard, and one was to Mr.
Wells, the lawyer, and the other two I don’t think I remember, sir—oh, yes, one
was to Ross’s, the caterers in Tadminster. The other one, I don’t remember.”
“Think,” urged Poirot.
Annie racked her brains in vain.
“I’m sorry, sir, but it’s clean gone. I don’t think I can have noticed it.”
“It does not matter,” said Poirot, not betraying any sign of disappointment.
“Now I want to ask you about something else. There is a saucepan in Mrs.
Inglethorp’s room with some cocoa in it. Did she have that every night?”
“Yes, sir, it was put in her room every evening, and she warmed it up in the
night—whenever she fancied it.”
“What was it? Plain cocoa?”
“Yes, sir, made with milk, with a teaspoonful of sugar, and two teaspoonfuls
of rum in it.”
“Who took it to her room?”
“I did, sir.”
“Always?”
“Yes, sir.”
“At what time?”
“When I went to draw the curtains, as a rule, sir.”
“Did you bring it straight up from the kitchen then?”
“No, sir, you see there’s not much room on the gas stove, so cook used to
make it early, before putting the vegetables on for supper. Then I used to bring it
up, and put it on the table by the swing door, and take it into her room later.”
“The swing door is in the left wing, is it not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And the table, is it on this side of the door, or on the farther—servants’ side?”
“It’s this side, sir.”
“What time did you bring it up last night?”
“About quarter-past seven, I should say, sir.”
“And when did you take it into Mrs. Inglethorp’s room?”
“When I went to shut up, sir. About eight o’clock. Mrs. Inglethorp came up to
bed before I’d finished.”
“Then, between seven-fifteen and eight o’clock, the cocoa was standing on the
table in the left wing?”
“Yes, sir.” Annie had been growing redder and redder in the face, and now she
blurted out unexpectedly:
“And if there was salt in it, sir, it wasn’t me. I never took the salt near it.”
“What makes you think there was salt in it?” asked Poirot.
“Seeing it on the tray, sir.”
“You saw some salt on the tray?”
“Yes. Coarse kitchen salt, it looked. I never noticed it when I took the tray up,
but when I came to take it into the mistress’s room I saw it at once, and I
suppose I ought to have taken it down again, and asked cook to make some
fresh. But I was in a hurry, because Dorcas was out, and I thought maybe the
cocoa itself was all right, and the salt had only gone on the tray. So I dusted it off
with my apron, and took it in.”
I had the utmost difficulty in controlling my excitement. Unknown to herself,
Annie had provided us with an important piece of evidence. How she would
have gaped if she had realized that her “coarse kitchen salt” was strychnine, one
of the most deadly poisons known to mankind. I marvelled at Poirot’s calm. His
self-control was astonishing. I awaited his next question with impatience, but it
disappointed me.
“When you went into Mrs. Inglethorp’s room, was the door leading into Miss
Cynthia’s room bolted?”
“Oh! Yes, sir; it always was. It had never been opened.”
“And the door into Mr. Inglethorp’s room? Did you notice if that was bolted
too?”
Annie hesitated.
“I couldn’t rightly say, sir; it was shut but I couldn’t say whether it was bolted
or not.”
“When you finally left the room, did Mrs. Inglethorp bolt the door after you?”
“No, sir, not then, but I expect she did later. She usually did lock it at night.
The door into the passage, that is.”
“Did you notice any candle grease on the floor when you did the room
yesterday?”
“Candle grease? Oh, no, sir. Mrs. Inglethorp didn’t have a candle, only a
reading-lamp.”
“Then, if there had been a large patch of candle grease on the floor, you think
you would have been sure to have seen it?”
“Yes, sir, and I would have taken it out with a piece of blotting-paper and a
hot iron.”
Then Poirot repeated the question he had put to Dorcas:
“Did your mistress ever have a green dress?”
“No, sir.”
“Nor a mantle, nor a cape, nor a—how do you call it?—a sports coat?”
“Not green, sir.”
“Nor anyone else in the house?”
Annie reflected.
“No, sir.”
“You are sure of that?”
“Quite sure.”
“Bien! That is all I want to know. Thank you very much.”
With a nervous giggle, Annie took herself creakingly out of the room. My
pent-up excitement burst forth.
“Poirot,” I cried, “I congratulate you! This is a great discovery.”
“What is a great discovery?”
“Why, that it was the cocoa and not the coffee that was poisoned. That
explains everything! Of course it did not take effect until the early morning,
since the cocoa was only drunk in the middle of the night.”
“So you think that the cocoa—mark well what I say, Hastings, the cocoa—
contained strychnine?”
“Of course! That salt on the tray, what else could it have been?”
“It might have been salt,” replied Poirot placidly.
I shrugged my shoulders. If he was going to take the matter that way, it was no
good arguing with him. The idea crossed my mind, not for the first time, that
poor old Poirot was growing old. Privately I thought it lucky that he had
associated with him someone of a more receptive type of mind.
Poirot was surveying me with quietly twinkling eyes.
“You are not pleased with me, mon ami?”
“My dear Poirot,” I said coldly, “it is not for me to dictate to you. You have a
right to your own opinion, just as I have to mine.”
“A most admirable sentiment,” remarked Poirot, rising briskly to his feet.
“Now I have finished with this room. By the way, whose is the smaller desk in
the corner?”
“Mr. Inglethorp’s.”
“Ah!” He tried the roll top tentatively. “Locked. But perhaps one of Mrs.
Inglethorp’s keys would open it.” He tried several, twisting and turning them
with a practiced hand, and finally uttering an ejaculation of satisfaction. “Voilà!
It is not the key, but it will open it at a pinch.” He slid back the roll top, and ran a
rapid eye over the neatly filed papers. To my surprise, he did not examine them,
merely remarking approvingly as he relocked the desk: “Decidedly, he is a man
of method, this Mr. Inglethorp!”
A “man of method” was, in Poirot’s estimation, the highest praise that could
be bestowed on any individual.
I felt that my friend was not what he had been as he rambled on
disconnectedly:
“There were no stamps in his desk, but there might have been, eh, mon ami?
There might have been? Yes”—his eyes wandered round the room—“this
boudoir has nothing more to tell us. It did not yield much. Only this.”
He pulled a crumpled envelope out of his pocket, and tossed it over to me. It
was rather a curious document. A plain, dirty looking old envelope with a few
words scrawled across it, apparently at random. The following is a facsimile of
it.
04
CHAPTER V.
“IT ISN’T STRYCHNINE, IS IT?”
“Where did you find this?” I asked Poirot, in lively curiosity.
“In the waste-paper basket. You recognise the handwriting?”
“Yes, it is Mrs. Inglethorp’s. But what does it mean?”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“I cannot say—but it is suggestive.”
A wild idea flashed across me. Was it possible that Mrs. Inglethorp’s mind
was deranged? Had she some fantastic idea of demoniacal possession? And, if
that were so, was it not also possible that she might have taken her own life?
I was about to expound these theories to Poirot, when his own words
distracted me.
“Come,” he said, “now to examine the coffee-cups!”
“My dear Poirot! What on earth is the good of that, now that we know about
the cocoa?”
“Oh, là là! That miserable cocoa!” cried Poirot flippantly.
He laughed with apparent enjoyment, raising his arms to heaven in mock
despair, in what I could not but consider the worst possible taste.
“And, anyway,” I said, with increasing coldness, “as Mrs. Inglethorp took her
coffee upstairs with her, I do not see what you expect to find, unless you
consider it likely that we shall discover a packet of strychnine on the coffee
tray!”
Poirot was sobered at once.
“Come, come, my friend,” he said, slipping his arms through mine. “Ne vous
fâchez pas! Allow me to interest myself in my coffee-cups, and I will respect
your cocoa. There! Is it a bargain?”
He was so quaintly humorous that I was forced to laugh; and we went together
to the drawing-room, where the coffee-cups and tray remained undisturbed as we
had left them.
Poirot made me recapitulate the scene of the night before, listening very
carefully, and verifying the position of the various cups.
“So Mrs. Cavendish stood by the tray—and poured out. Yes. Then she came
across to the window where you sat with Mademoiselle Cynthia. Yes. Here are
the three cups. And the cup on the mantelpiece, half drunk, that would be Mr.
Lawrence Cavendish’s. And the one on the tray?”
“John Cavendish’s. I saw him put it down there.”
“Good. One, two, three, four, five—but where, then, is the cup of Mr.
Inglethorp?”
“He does not take coffee.”
“Then all are accounted for. One moment, my friend.”
With infinite care, he took a drop or two from the grounds in each cup, sealing
them up in separate test tubes, tasting each in turn as he did so. His physiognomy
underwent a curious change. An expression gathered there that I can only
describe as half puzzled, and half relieved.
“Bien!” he said at last. “It is evident! I had an idea—but clearly I was
mistaken. Yes, altogether I was mistaken. Yet it is strange. But no matter!”
And, with a characteristic shrug, he dismissed whatever it was that was
worrying him from his mind. I could have told him from the beginning that this
obsession of his over the coffee was bound to end in a blind alley, but I
restrained my tongue. After all, though he was old, Poirot had been a great man
in his day.
“Breakfast is ready,” said John Cavendish, coming in from the hall. “You will
breakfast with us, Monsieur Poirot?”
Poirot acquiesced. I observed John. Already he was almost restored to his
normal self. The shock of the events of the last night had upset him temporarily,
but his equable poise soon swung back to the normal. He was a man of very little
imagination, in sharp contrast with his brother, who had, perhaps, too much.
Ever since the early hours of the morning, John had been hard at work,
sending telegrams—one of the first had gone to Evelyn Howard—writing
notices for the papers, and generally occupying himself with the melancholy
duties that a death entails.
“May I ask how things are proceeding?” he said. “Do your investigations
point to my mother having died a natural death—or—or must we prepare
ourselves for the worst?”
“I think, Mr. Cavendish,” said Poirot gravely, “that you would do well not to
buoy yourself up with any false hopes. Can you tell me the views of the other
members of the family?”
“My brother Lawrence is convinced that we are making a fuss over nothing.
He says that everything points to its being a simple case of heart failure.”
“He does, does he? That is very interesting—very interesting,” murmured
Poirot softly. “And Mrs. Cavendish?”
A faint cloud passed over John’s face.
“I have not the least idea what my wife’s views on the subject are.”
The answer brought a momentary stiffness in its train. John broke the rather
awkward silence by saying with a slight effort:
“I told you, didn’t I, that Mr. Inglethorp has returned?”
Poirot bent his head.
“It’s an awkward position for all of us. Of course one has to treat him as usual
—but, hang it all, one’s gorge does rise at sitting down to eat with a possible
murderer!”
Poirot nodded sympathetically.
“I quite understand. It is a very difficult situation for you, Mr. Cavendish. I
would like to ask you one question. Mr. Inglethorp’s reason for not returning last
night was, I believe, that he had forgotten the latch-key. Is not that so?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose you are quite sure that the latch-key was forgotten—that he did not
take it after all?”
“I have no idea. I never thought of looking. We always keep it in the hall
drawer. I’ll go and see if it’s there now.”
Poirot held up his hand with a faint smile.
“No, no, Mr. Cavendish, it is too late now. I am certain that you would find it.
If Mr. Inglethorp did take it, he has had ample time to replace it by now.”
“But do you think——”
“I think nothing. If anyone had chanced to look this morning before his return,
and seen it there, it would have been a valuable point in his favour. That is all.”
John looked perplexed.
“Do not worry,” said Poirot smoothly. “I assure you that you need not let it
trouble you. Since you are so kind, let us go and have some breakfast.”
Everyone was assembled in the dining-room. Under the circumstances, we
were naturally not a cheerful party. The reaction after a shock is always trying,
and I think we were all suffering from it. Decorum and good breeding naturally
enjoined that our demeanour should be much as usual, yet I could not help
wondering if this self-control were really a matter of great difficulty. There were
no red eyes, no signs of secretly indulged grief. I felt that I was right in my
opinion that Dorcas was the person most affected by the personal side of the
tragedy.
I pass over Alfred Inglethorp, who acted the bereaved widower in a manner
that I felt to be disgusting in its hypocrisy. Did he know that we suspected him, I
wondered. Surely he could not be unaware of the fact, conceal it as we would.
Did he feel some secret stirring of fear, or was he confident that his crime would
go unpunished? Surely the suspicion in the atmosphere must warn him that he
was already a marked man.
But did everyone suspect him? What about Mrs. Cavendish? I watched her as
she sat at the head of the table, graceful, composed, enigmatic. In her soft grey
frock, with white ruffles at the wrists falling over her slender hands, she looked
very beautiful. When she chose, however, her face could be sphinx-like in its
inscrutability. She was very silent, hardly opening her lips, and yet in some queer
way I felt that the great strength of her personality was dominating us all.
And little Cynthia? Did she suspect? She looked very tired and ill, I thought.
The heaviness and languor of her manner were very marked. I asked her if she
were feeling ill, and she answered frankly:
“Yes, I’ve got the most beastly headache.”
“Have another cup of coffee, mademoiselle?” said Poirot solicitously. “It will
revive you. It is unparalleled for the mal de tête.” He jumped up and took her
cup.
“No sugar,” said Cynthia, watching him, as he picked up the sugar-tongs.
“No sugar? You abandon it in the war-time, eh?”
“No, I never take it in coffee.”
“Sacré!” murmured Poirot to himself, as he brought back the replenished cup.
Only I heard him, and glancing up curiously at the little man I saw that his
face was working with suppressed excitement, and his eyes were as green as a
cat’s. He had heard or seen something that had affected him strongly—but what
was it? I do not usually label myself as dense, but I must confess that nothing out
of the ordinary had attracted my attention.
In another moment, the door opened and Dorcas appeared.
“Mr. Wells to see you, sir,” she said to John.
I remembered the name as being that of the lawyer to whom Mrs. Inglethorp
had written the night before.
John rose immediately.
“Show him into my study.” Then he turned to us. “My mother’s lawyer,” he
explained. And in a lower voice: “He is also Coroner—you understand. Perhaps
you would like to come with me?”
We acquiesced and followed him out of the room. John strode on ahead and I
took the opportunity of whispering to Poirot:
“There will be an inquest then?”
Poirot nodded absently. He seemed absorbed in thought; so much so that my
curiosity was aroused.
“What is it? You are not attending to what I say.”
“It is true, my friend. I am much worried.”
“Why?”
“Because Mademoiselle Cynthia does not take sugar in her coffee.”
“What? You cannot be serious?”
“But I am most serious. Ah, there is something there that I do not understand.
My instinct was right.”
“What instinct?”
“The instinct that led me to insist on examining those coffee-cups. Chut! no
more now!”
We followed John into his study, and he closed the door behind us.
Mr. Wells was a pleasant man of middle-age, with keen eyes, and the typical
lawyer’s mouth. John introduced us both, and explained the reason of our
presence.
“You will understand, Wells,” he added, “that this is all strictly private. We are
still hoping that there will turn out to be no need for investigation of any kind.”
“Quite so, quite so,” said Mr. Wells soothingly. “I wish we could have spared
you the pain and publicity of an inquest, but of course it’s quite unavoidable in
the absence of a doctor’s certificate.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Clever man, Bauerstein. Great authority on toxicology, I believe.”
“Indeed,” said John with a certain stiffness in his manner. Then he added
rather hesitatingly: “Shall we have to appear as witnesses—all of us, I mean?”
“You, of course—and ah—er—Mr.—er—Inglethorp.”
A slight pause ensued before the lawyer went on in his soothing manner:
“Any other evidence will be simply confirmatory, a mere matter of form.”
“I see.”
A faint expression of relief swept over John’s face. It puzzled me, for I saw no
occasion for it.
“If you know of nothing to the contrary,” pursued Mr. Wells, “I had thought of
Friday. That will give us plenty of time for the doctor’s report. The post-mortem
is to take place to-night, I believe?”
“Yes.”
“Then that arrangement will suit you?”
“Perfectly.”
“I need not tell you, my dear Cavendish, how distressed I am at this most
tragic affair.”
“Can you give us no help in solving it, monsieur?” interposed Poirot, speaking
for the first time since we had entered the room.
“I?”
“Yes, we heard that Mrs. Inglethorp wrote to you last night. You should have
received the letter this morning.”
“I did, but it contains no information. It is merely a note asking me to call
upon her this morning, as she wanted my advice on a matter of great
importance.”
“She gave you no hint as to what that matter might be?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
“That is a pity,” said John.
“A great pity,” agreed Poirot gravely.
There was silence. Poirot remained lost in thought for a few minutes. Finally
he turned to the lawyer again.
“Mr. Wells, there is one thing I should like to ask you—that is, if it is not
against professional etiquette. In the event of Mrs. Inglethorp’s death, who
would inherit her money?”
The lawyer hesitated a moment, and then replied:
“The knowledge will be public property very soon, so if Mr. Cavendish does
not object——”
“Not at all,” interpolated John.
“I do not see any reason why I should not answer your question. By her last
will, dated August of last year, after various unimportant legacies to servants,
etc., she gave her entire fortune to her stepson, Mr. John Cavendish.”
“Was not that—pardon the question, Mr. Cavendish—rather unfair to her
other stepson, Mr. Lawrence Cavendish?”
“No, I do not think so. You see, under the terms of their father’s will, while
John inherited the property, Lawrence, at his stepmother’s death, would come
into a considerable sum of money. Mrs. Inglethorp left her money to her elder
stepson, knowing that he would have to keep up Styles. It was, to my mind, a
very fair and equitable distribution.”
Poirot nodded thoughtfully.
“I see. But I am right in saying, am I not, that by your English law that will
was automatically revoked when Mrs. Inglethorp remarried?”
Mr. Wells bowed his head.
“As I was about to proceed, Monsieur Poirot, that document is now null and
void.”
“Hein!” said Poirot. He reflected for a moment, and then asked: “Was Mrs.
Inglethorp herself aware of that fact?”
“I do not know. She may have been.”
“She was,” said John unexpectedly. “We were discussing the matter of wills
being revoked by marriage only yesterday.”
“Ah! One more question, Mr. Wells. You say ‘her last will.’ Had Mrs.
Inglethorp, then, made several former wills?”
“On an average, she made a new will at least once a year,” said Mr. Wells
imperturbably. “She was given to changing her mind as to her testamentary
dispositions, now benefiting one, now another member of her family.”
“Suppose,” suggested Poirot, “that, unknown to you, she had made a new will
in favour of someone who was not, in any sense of the word, a member of the
family—we will say Miss Howard, for instance—would you be surprised?”
“Not in the least.”
“Ah!” Poirot seemed to have exhausted his questions.
I drew close to him, while John and the lawyer were debating the question of
going through Mrs. Inglethorp’s papers.
“Do you think Mrs. Inglethorp made a will leaving all her money to Miss
Howard?” I asked in a low voice, with some curiosity.
Poirot smiled.
“No.”
“Then why did you ask?”
“Hush!”
John Cavendish had turned to Poirot.
“Will you come with us, Monsieur Poirot? We are going through my mother’s
papers. Mr. Inglethorp is quite willing to leave it entirely to Mr. Wells and
myself.”
“Which simplifies matters very much,” murmured the lawyer. “As technically,
of course, he was entitled——” He did not finish the sentence.
“We will look through the desk in the boudoir first,” explained John, “and go
up to her bedroom afterwards. She kept her most important papers in a purple
despatch-case, which we must look through carefully.”
“Yes,” said the lawyer, “it is quite possible that there may be a later will than
the one in my possession.”
“There is a later will.” It was Poirot who spoke.
“What?” John and the lawyer looked at him startled.
“Or, rather,” pursued my friend imperturbably, “there was one.”
“What do you mean—there was one? Where is it now?”
“Burnt!”
“Burnt?”
“Yes. See here.” He took out the charred fragment we had found in the grate
in Mrs. Inglethorp’s room, and handed it to the lawyer with a brief explanation
of when and where he had found it.
“But possibly this is an old will?”
“I do not think so. In fact I am almost certain that it was made no earlier than
yesterday afternoon.”
“What?” “Impossible!” broke simultaneously from both men.
Poirot turned to John.
“If you will allow me to send for your gardener, I will prove it to you.”
“Oh, of course—but I don’t see——”
Poirot raised his hand.
“Do as I ask you. Afterwards you shall question as much as you please.”
“Very well.” He rang the bell.
Dorcas answered it in due course.
“Dorcas, will you tell Manning to come round and speak to me here.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dorcas withdrew.
We waited in a tense silence. Poirot alone seemed perfectly at his ease, and
dusted a forgotten corner of the bookcase.
The clumping of hobnailed boots on the gravel outside proclaimed the
approach of Manning. John looked questioningly at Poirot. The latter nodded.
“Come inside, Manning,” said John, “I want to speak to you.”
Manning came slowly and hesitatingly through the French window, and stood
as near it as he could. He held his cap in his hands, twisting it very carefully
round and round. His back was much bent, though he was probably not as old as
he looked, but his eyes were sharp and intelligent, and belied his slow and rather
cautious speech.
“Manning,” said John, “this gentleman will put some questions to you which I
want you to answer.”
“Yessir,” mumbled Manning.
Poirot stepped forward briskly. Manning’s eye swept over him with a faint
contempt.
“You were planting a bed of begonias round by the south side of the house
yesterday afternoon, were you not, Manning?”
“Yes, sir, me and Willum.”
“And Mrs. Inglethorp came to the window and called you, did she not?”
“Yes, sir, she did.”
“Tell me in your own words exactly what happened after that.”
“Well, sir, nothing much. She just told Willum to go on his bicycle down to
the village, and bring back a form of will, or such-like—I don’t know what
exactly—she wrote it down for him.”
“Well?”
“Well, he did, sir.”
“And what happened next?”
“We went on with the begonias, sir.”
“Did not Mrs. Inglethorp call you again?”
“Yes, sir, both me and Willum, she called.”
“And then?”
“She made us come right in, and sign our names at the bottom of a long paper
—under where she’d signed.”
“Did you see anything of what was written above her signature?” asked Poirot
sharply.
“No, sir, there was a bit of blotting paper over that part.”
“And you signed where she told you?”
“Yes, sir, first me and then Willum.”
“What did she do with it afterwards?”
“Well, sir, she slipped it into a long envelope, and put it inside a sort of purple
box that was standing on the desk.”
“What time was it when she first called you?”
“About four, I should say, sir.”
“Not earlier? Couldn’t it have been about half-past three?”
“No, I shouldn’t say so, sir. It would be more likely to be a bit after four—not
before it.”
“Thank you, Manning, that will do,” said Poirot pleasantly.
The gardener glanced at his master, who nodded, whereupon Manning lifted a
finger to his forehead with a low mumble, and backed cautiously out of the
window.
We all looked at each other.
“Good heavens!” murmured John. “What an extraordinary coincidence.”
“How—a coincidence?”
“That my mother should have made a will on the very day of her death!”
Mr. Wells cleared his throat and remarked drily:
“Are you so sure it is a coincidence, Cavendish?”
“What do you mean?”
“Your mother, you tell me, had a violent quarrel with—someone yesterday
afternoon——”
“What do you mean?” cried John again. There was a tremor in his voice, and
he had gone very pale.
“In consequence of that quarrel, your mother very suddenly and hurriedly
makes a new will. The contents of that will we shall never know. She told no one
of its provisions. This morning, no doubt, she would have consulted me on the
subject—but she had no chance. The will disappears, and she takes its secret
with her to her grave. Cavendish, I much fear there is no coincidence there.
Monsieur Poirot, I am sure you agree with me that the facts are very suggestive.”
“Suggestive, or not,” interrupted John, “we are most grateful to Monsieur
Poirot for elucidating the matter. But for him, we should never have known of
this will. I suppose, I may not ask you, monsieur, what first led you to suspect
the fact?”
Poirot smiled and answered:
“A scribbled over old envelope, and a freshly planted bed of begonias.”
John, I think, would have pressed his questions further, but at that moment the
loud purr of a motor was audible, and we all turned to the window as it swept
past.
“Evie!” cried John. “Excuse me, Wells.” He went hurriedly out into the hall.
Poirot looked inquiringly at me.
“Miss Howard,” I explained.
“Ah, I am glad she has come. There is a woman with a head and a heart too,
Hastings. Though the good God gave her no beauty!”
I followed John’s example, and went out into the hall, where Miss Howard
was endeavouring to extricate herself from the voluminous mass of veils that
enveloped her head. As her eyes fell on me, a sudden pang of guilt shot through
me. This was the woman who had warned me so earnestly, and to whose
warning I had, alas, paid no heed! How soon, and how contemptuously, I had
dismissed it from my mind. Now that she had been proved justified in so tragic a
manner, I felt ashamed. She had known Alfred Inglethorp only too well. I
wondered whether, if she had remained at Styles, the tragedy would have taken
place, or would the man have feared her watchful eyes?
I was relieved when she shook me by the hand, with her well remembered
painful grip. The eyes that met mine were sad, but not reproachful; that she had
been crying bitterly, I could tell by the redness of her eyelids, but her manner
was unchanged from its old gruffness.
“Started the moment I got the wire. Just come off night duty. Hired car.
Quickest way to get here.”
“Have you had anything to eat this morning, Evie?” asked John.
“No.”
“I thought not. Come along, breakfast’s not cleared away yet, and they’ll
make you some fresh tea.” He turned to me. “Look after her, Hastings, will you?
Wells is waiting for me. Oh, here’s Monsieur Poirot. He’s helping us, you know,
Evie.”
Miss Howard shook hands with Poirot, but glanced suspiciously over her
shoulder at John.
“What do you mean—helping us?”
“Helping us to investigate.”
“Nothing to investigate. Have they taken him to prison yet?”
“Taken who to prison?”
“Who? Alfred Inglethorp, of course!”
“My dear Evie, do be careful. Lawrence is of the opinion that my mother died
from heart seizure.”
“More fool, Lawrence!” retorted Miss Howard. “Of course Alfred Inglethorp
murdered poor Emily—as I always told you he would.”
“My dear Evie, don’t shout so. Whatever we may think or suspect, it is better
to say as little as possible for the present. The inquest isn’t until Friday.”
“Not until fiddlesticks!” The snort Miss Howard gave was truly magnificent.
“You’re all off your heads. The man will be out of the country by then. If he’s
any sense, he won’t stay here tamely and wait to be hanged.”
John Cavendish looked at her helplessly.
“I know what it is,” she accused him, “you’ve been listening to the doctors.
Never should. What do they know? Nothing at all—or just enough to make them
dangerous. I ought to know—my own father was a doctor. That little Wilkins is
about the greatest fool that even I have ever seen. Heart seizure! Sort of thing he
would say. Anyone with any sense could see at once that her husband had
poisoned her. I always said he’d murder her in her bed, poor soul. Now he’s done
it. And all you can do is to murmur silly things about ‘heart seizure’ and ‘inquest
on Friday.’ You ought to be ashamed of yourself, John Cavendish.”
“What do you want me to do?” asked John, unable to help a faint smile. “Dash
it all, Evie, I can’t haul him down to the local police station by the scruff of his
neck.”
“Well, you might do something. Find out how he did it. He’s a crafty beggar.
Dare say he soaked fly papers. Ask cook if she’s missed any.”
It occurred to me very forcibly at that moment that to harbour Miss Howard
and Alfred Inglethorp under the same roof, and keep the peace between them,
was likely to prove a Herculean task, and I did not envy John. I could see by the
expression of his face that he fully appreciated the difficulty of the position. For
the moment, he sought refuge in retreat, and left the room precipitately.
Dorcas brought in fresh tea. As she left the room, Poirot came over from the
window where he had been standing, and sat down facing Miss Howard.
“Mademoiselle,” he said gravely, “I want to ask you something.”
“Ask away,” said the lady, eyeing him with some disfavour.
“I want to be able to count upon your help.”
“I’ll help you to hang Alfred with pleasure,” she replied gruffly. “Hanging’s
too good for him. Ought to be drawn and quartered, like in good old times.”
“We are at one then,” said Poirot, “for I, too, want to hang the criminal.”
“Alfred Inglethorp?”
“Him, or another.”
“No question of another. Poor Emily was never murdered until he came along.
I don’t say she wasn’t surrounded by sharks—she was. But it was only her purse
they were after. Her life was safe enough. But along comes Mr. Alfred
Inglethorp—and within two months—hey presto!”
“Believe me, Miss Howard,” said Poirot very earnestly, “if Mr. Inglethorp is
the man, he shall not escape me. On my honour, I will hang him as high as
Haman!”
“That’s better,” said Miss Howard more enthusiastically.
“But I must ask you to trust me. Now your help may be very valuable to me. I
will tell you why. Because, in all this house of mourning, yours are the only eyes
that have wept.”
Miss Howard blinked, and a new note crept into the gruffness of her voice.
“If you mean that I was fond of her—yes, I was. You know, Emily was a
selfish old woman in her way. She was very generous, but she always wanted a
return. She never let people forget what she had done for them—and, that way
she missed love. Don’t think she ever realized it, though, or felt the lack of it.
Hope not, anyway. I was on a different footing. I took my stand from the first.
‘So many pounds a year I’m worth to you. Well and good. But not a penny piece
besides—not a pair of gloves, nor a theatre ticket.’ She didn’t understand—was
very offended sometimes. Said I was foolishly proud. It wasn’t that—but I
couldn’t explain. Anyway, I kept my self-respect. And so, out of the whole
bunch, I was the only one who could allow myself to be fond of her. I watched
over her. I guarded her from the lot of them, and then a glib-tongued scoundrel
comes along, and pooh! all my years of devotion go for nothing.”
Poirot nodded sympathetically.
“I understand, mademoiselle, I understand all you feel. It is most natural. You
think that we are lukewarm—that we lack fire and energy—but trust me, it is not
so.”
John stuck his head in at this juncture, and invited us both to come up to Mrs.
Inglethorp’s room, as he and Mr. Wells had finished looking through the desk in
the boudoir.
As we went up the stairs, John looked back to the dining-room door, and
lowered his voice confidentially:
“Look here, what’s going to happen when these two meet?”
I shook my head helplessly.
“I’ve told Mary to keep them apart if she can.”
“Will she be able to do so?”
“The Lord only knows. There’s one thing, Inglethorp himself won’t be too
keen on meeting her.”
“You’ve got the keys still, haven’t you, Poirot?” I asked, as we reached the
door of the locked room.
Taking the keys from Poirot, John unlocked it, and we all passed in. The
lawyer went straight to the desk, and John followed him.
“My mother kept most of her important papers in this despatch-case, I
believe,” he said.
Poirot drew out the small bunch of keys.
“Permit me. I locked it, out of precaution, this morning.”
“But it’s not locked now.”
“Impossible!”
“See.” And John lifted the lid as he spoke.
“Milles tonnerres!” cried Poirot, dumbfounded. “And I—who have both the
keys in my pocket!” He flung himself upon the case. Suddenly he stiffened. “Eh
voilà une affaire! This lock has been forced.”
“What?”
Poirot laid down the case again.
“But who forced it? Why should they? When? But the door was locked?”
These exclamations burst from us disjointedly.
Poirot answered them categorically—almost mechanically.
“Who? That is the question. Why? Ah, if I only knew. When? Since I was
here an hour ago. As to the door being locked, it is a very ordinary lock.
Probably any other of the doorkeys in this passage would fit it.”
We stared at one another blankly. Poirot had walked over to the mantelpiece.
He was outwardly calm, but I noticed his hands, which from long force of habit
were mechanically straightening the spill vases on the mantelpiece, were shaking
violently.
“See here, it was like this,” he said at last. “There was something in that case
—some piece of evidence, slight in itself perhaps, but still enough of a clue to
connect the murderer with the crime. It was vital to him that it should be
destroyed before it was discovered and its significance appreciated. Therefore,
he took the risk, the great risk, of coming in here. Finding the case locked, he
was obliged to force it, thus betraying his presence. For him to take that risk, it
must have been something of great importance.”
“But what was it?”
“Ah!” cried Poirot, with a gesture of anger. “That, I do not know! A document
of some kind, without doubt, possibly the scrap of paper Dorcas saw in her hand
yesterday afternoon. And I—” his anger burst forth freely—“miserable animal
that I am! I guessed nothing! I have behaved like an imbecile! I should never
have left that case here. I should have carried it away with me. Ah, triple pig!
And now it is gone. It is destroyed—but is it destroyed? Is there not yet a chance
—we must leave no stone unturned—”
He rushed like a madman from the room, and I followed him as soon as I had
sufficiently recovered my wits. But, by the time I had reached the top of the
stairs, he was out of sight.
Mary Cavendish was standing where the staircase branched, staring down into
the hall in the direction in which he had disappeared.
“What has happened to your extraordinary little friend, Mr. Hastings? He has
just rushed past me like a mad bull.”
“He’s rather upset about something,” I remarked feebly. I really did not know
how much Poirot would wish me to disclose. As I saw a faint smile gather on
Mrs. Cavendish’s expressive mouth, I endeavoured to try and turn the
conversation by saying: “They haven’t met yet, have they?”
“Who?”
“Mr. Inglethorp and Miss Howard.”
She looked at me in rather a disconcerting manner.
“Do you think it would be such a disaster if they did meet?”
“Well, don’t you?” I said, rather taken aback.
“No.” She was smiling in her quiet way. “I should like to see a good flare up.
It would clear the air. At present we are all thinking so much, and saying so
little.”
“John doesn’t think so,” I remarked. “He’s anxious to keep them apart.”
“Oh, John!”
Something in her tone fired me, and I blurted out:
“Old John’s an awfully good sort.”
She studied me curiously for a minute or two, and then said, to my great
surprise:
“You are loyal to your friend. I like you for that.”
“Aren’t you my friend too?”
“I am a very bad friend.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because it is true. I am charming to my friends one day, and forget all about
them the next.”
I don’t know what impelled me, but I was nettled, and I said foolishly and not
in the best of taste:
“Yet you seem to be invariably charming to Dr. Bauerstein!”
Instantly I regretted my words. Her face stiffened. I had the impression of a
steel curtain coming down and blotting out the real woman. Without a word, she
turned and went swiftly up the stairs, whilst I stood like an idiot gaping after her.
I was recalled to other matters by a frightful row going on below. I could hear
Poirot shouting and expounding. I was vexed to think that my diplomacy had
been in vain. The little man appeared to be taking the whole house into his
confidence, a proceeding of which I, for one, doubted the wisdom. Once again I
could not help regretting that my friend was so prone to lose his head in
moments of excitement. I stepped briskly down the stairs. The sight of me
calmed Poirot almost immediately. I drew him aside.
“My dear fellow,” I said, “is this wise? Surely you don’t want the whole house
to know of this occurrence? You are actually playing into the criminal’s hands.”
“You think so, Hastings?”
“I am sure of it.”
“Well, well, my friend, I will be guided by you.”
“Good. Although, unfortunately, it is a little too late now.”
“Sure.”
He looked so crestfallen and abashed that I felt quite sorry, though I still
thought my rebuke a just and wise one.
“Well,” he said at last, “let us go, mon ami.”
“You have finished here?”
“For the moment, yes. You will walk back with me to the village?”
“Willingly.”
He picked up his little suit-case, and we went out through the open window in
the drawing-room. Cynthia Murdoch was just coming in, and Poirot stood aside
to let her pass.
“Excuse me, mademoiselle, one minute.”
“Yes?” she turned inquiringly.
“Did you ever make up Mrs. Inglethorp’s medicines?”
A slight flush rose in her face, as she answered rather constrainedly:
“No.”
“Only her powders?”
The flush deepened as Cynthia replied:
“Oh, yes, I did make up some sleeping powders for her once.”
“These?”
Poirot produced the empty box which had contained powders.
She nodded.
“Can you tell me what they were? Sulphonal? Veronal?”
“No, they were bromide powders.”
“Ah! Thank you, mademoiselle; good morning.”
As we walked briskly away from the house, I glanced at him more than once.
I had often before noticed that, if anything excited him, his eyes turned green
like a cat’s. They were shining like emeralds now.
“My friend,” he broke out at last, “I have a little idea, a very strange, and
probably utterly impossible idea. And yet—it fits in.”
I shrugged my shoulders. I privately thought that Poirot was rather too much
given to these fantastic ideas. In this case, surely, the truth was only too plain
and apparent.
“So that is the explanation of the blank label on the box,” I remarked. “Very
simple, as you said. I really wonder that I did not think of it myself.”
Poirot did not appear to be listening to me.
“They have made one more discovery, là-bas,” he observed, jerking his thumb
over his shoulder in the direction of Styles. “Mr. Wells told me as we were going
upstairs.”
“What was it?”
“Locked up in the desk in the boudoir, they found a will of Mrs. Inglethorp’s,
dated before her marriage, leaving her fortune to Alfred Inglethorp. It must have
been made just at the time they were engaged. It came quite as a surprise to
Wells—and to John Cavendish also. It was written on one of those printed will
forms, and witnessed by two of the servants—not Dorcas.”
“Did Mr. Inglethorp know of it?”
“He says not.”
“One might take that with a grain of salt,” I remarked sceptically. “All these
wills are very confusing. Tell me, how did those scribbled words on the envelope
help you to discover that a will was made yesterday afternoon?”
Poirot smiled.
“Mon ami, have you ever, when writing a letter, been arrested by the fact that
you did not know how to spell a certain word?”
“Yes, often. I suppose everyone has.”
“Exactly. And have you not, in such a case, tried the word once or twice on
the edge of the blotting-paper, or a spare scrap of paper, to see if it looked right?
Well, that is what Mrs. Inglethorp did. You will notice that the word ‘possessed’
is spelt first with one ‘s’ and subsequently with two—correctly. To make sure,
she had further tried it in a sentence, thus: ‘I am possessed.’ Now, what did that
tell me? It told me that Mrs. Inglethorp had been writing the word ‘possessed’
that afternoon, and, having the fragment of paper found in the grate fresh in my
mind, the possibility of a will—(a document almost certain to contain that word)
—occurred to me at once. This possibility was confirmed by a further
circumstance. In the general confusion, the boudoir had not been swept that
morning, and near the desk were several traces of brown mould and earth. The
weather had been perfectly fine for some days, and no ordinary boots would
have left such a heavy deposit.
“I strolled to the window, and saw at once that the begonia beds had been
newly planted. The mould in the beds was exactly similar to that on the floor of
the boudoir, and also I learnt from you that they had been planted yesterday
afternoon. I was now sure that one, or possibly both of the gardeners—for there
were two sets of footprints in the bed—had entered the boudoir, for if Mrs.
Inglethorp had merely wished to speak to them she would in all probability have
stood at the window, and they would not have come into the room at all. I was
now quite convinced that she had made a fresh will, and had called the two
gardeners in to witness her signature. Events proved that I was right in my
supposition.”
“That was very ingenious,” I could not help admitting. “I must confess that
the conclusions I drew from those few scribbled words were quite erroneous.”
He smiled.
“You gave too much rein to your imagination. Imagination is a good servant,
and a bad master. The simplest explanation is always the most likely.”
“Another point—how did you know that the key of the despatch-case had
been lost?”
“I did not know it. It was a guess that turned out to be correct. You observed
that it had a piece of twisted wire through the handle. That suggested to me at
once that it had possibly been wrenched off a flimsy key-ring. Now, if it had
been lost and recovered, Mrs. Inglethorp would at once have replaced it on her
bunch; but on her bunch I found what was obviously the duplicate key, very new
and bright, which led me to the hypothesis that somebody else had inserted the
original key in the lock of the despatch-case.”
“Yes,” I said, “Alfred Inglethorp, without doubt.”
Poirot looked at me curiously.
“You are very sure of his guilt?”
“Well, naturally. Every fresh circumstance seems to establish it more clearly.”
“On the contrary,” said Poirot quietly, “there are several points in his favour.”
“Oh, come now!”
“Yes.”
“I see only one.”
“And that?”
“That he was not in the house last night.”
“‘Bad shot!’ as you English say! You have chosen the one point that to my
mind tells against him.”
“How is that?”
“Because if Mr. Inglethorp knew that his wife would be poisoned last night,
he would certainly have arranged to be away from the house. His excuse was an
obviously trumped up one. That leaves us two possibilities: either he knew what
was going to happen or he had a reason of his own for his absence.”
“And that reason?” I asked sceptically.
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“How should I know? Discreditable, without doubt. This Mr. Inglethorp, I
should say, is somewhat of a scoundrel—but that does not of necessity make him
a murderer.”
I shook my head, unconvinced.
“We do not agree, eh?” said Poirot. “Well, let us leave it. Time will show
which of us is right. Now let us turn to other aspects of the case. What do you
make of the fact that all the doors of the bedroom were bolted on the inside?”
“Well——” I considered. “One must look at it logically.”
“True.”
“I should put it this way. The doors were bolted—our own eyes have told us
that—yet the presence of the candle grease on the floor, and the destruction of
the will, prove that during the night someone entered the room. You agree so
far?”
“Perfectly. Put with admirable clearness. Proceed.”
“Well,” I said, encouraged, “as the person who entered did not do so by the
window, nor by miraculous means, it follows that the door must have been
opened from inside by Mrs. Inglethorp herself. That strengthens the conviction
that the person in question was her husband. She would naturally open the door
to her own husband.”
Poirot shook his head.
“Why should she? She had bolted the door leading into his room—a most
unusual proceeding on her part—she had had a most violent quarrel with him
that very afternoon. No, he was the last person she would admit.”
“But you agree with me that the door must have been opened by Mrs.
Inglethorp herself?”
“There is another possibility. She may have forgotten to bolt the door into the
passage when she went to bed, and have got up later, towards morning, and
bolted it then.”
“Poirot, is that seriously your opinion?”
“No, I do not say it is so, but it might be. Now, to turn to another feature, what
do you make of the scrap of conversation you overheard between Mrs.
Cavendish and her mother-in-law?”
“I had forgotten that,” I said thoughtfully. “That is as enigmatical as ever. It
seems incredible that a woman like Mrs. Cavendish, proud and reticent to the
last degree, should interfere so violently in what was certainly not her affair.”
“Precisely. It was an astonishing thing for a woman of her breeding to do.”
“It is certainly curious,” I agreed. “Still, it is unimportant, and need not be
taken into account.”
A groan burst from Poirot.
“What have I always told you? Everything must be taken into account. If the
fact will not fit the theory—let the theory go.”
“Well, we shall see,” I said, nettled.
“Yes, we shall see.”
We had reached Leastways Cottage, and Poirot ushered me upstairs to his own
room. He offered me one of the tiny Russian cigarettes he himself occasionally
smoked. I was amused to notice that he stowed away the used matches most
carefully in a little china pot. My momentary annoyance vanished.
Poirot had placed our two chairs in front of the open window which
commanded a view of the village street. The fresh air blew in warm and
pleasant. It was going to be a hot day.
Suddenly my attention was arrested by a weedy looking young man rushing
down the street at a great pace. It was the expression on his face that was
extraordinary—a curious mingling of terror and agitation.
“Look, Poirot!” I said.
He leant forward.
“Tiens!” he said. “It is Mr. Mace, from the chemist’s shop. He is coming
here.”
The young man came to a halt before Leastways Cottage, and, after hesitating
a moment, pounded vigorously at the door.
“A little minute,” cried Poirot from the window. “I come.”
Motioning to me to follow him, he ran swiftly down the stairs and opened the
door. Mr. Mace began at once.
“Oh, Mr. Poirot, I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but I heard that you’d just
come back from the Hall?”
“Yes, we have.”
The young man moistened his dry lips. His face was working curiously.
“It’s all over the village about old Mrs. Inglethorp dying so suddenly. They do
say—” he lowered his voice cautiously—“that it’s poison?”
Poirot’s face remained quite impassive.
“Only the doctors can tell us that, Mr. Mace.”
“Yes, exactly—of course——” The young man hesitated, and then his
agitation was too much for him. He clutched Poirot by the arm, and sank his
voice to a whisper: “Just tell me this, Mr. Poirot, it isn’t—it isn’t strychnine, is
it?”
I hardly heard what Poirot replied. Something evidently of a non-committal
nature. The young man departed, and as he closed the door Poirot’s eyes met
mine.
“Yes,” he said, nodding gravely. “He will have evidence to give at the
inquest.”
We went slowly upstairs again. I was opening my lips, when Poirot stopped
me with a gesture of his hand.
“Not now, not now, mon ami. I have need of reflection. My mind is in some
disorder—which is not well.”
For about ten minutes he sat in dead silence, perfectly still, except for several
expressive motions of his eyebrows, and all the time his eyes grew steadily
greener. At last he heaved a deep sigh.
“It is well. The bad moment has passed. Now all is arranged and classified.
One must never permit confusion. The case is not clear yet—no. For it is of the
most complicated! It puzzles me. Me, Hercule Poirot! There are two facts of
significance.”
“And what are they?”
“The first is the state of the weather yesterday. That is very important.”
“But it was a glorious day!” I interrupted. “Poirot, you’re pulling my leg!”
“Not at all. The thermometer registered 80 degrees in the shade. Do not forget
that, my friend. It is the key to the whole riddle!”
“And the second point?” I asked.
“The important fact that Monsieur Inglethorp wears very peculiar clothes, has
a black beard, and uses glasses.”
“Poirot, I cannot believe you are serious.”
“I am absolutely serious, my friend.”
“But this is childish!”
“No, it is very momentous.”
“And supposing the Coroner’s jury returns a verdict of Wilful Murder against
Alfred Inglethorp. What becomes of your theories, then?”
“They would not be shaken because twelve stupid men had happened to make
a mistake! But that will not occur. For one thing, a country jury is not anxious to
take responsibility upon itself, and Mr. Inglethorp stands practically in the
position of local squire. Also,” he added placidly, “I should not allow it!”
“You would not allow it?”
“No.”
I looked at the extraordinary little man, divided between annoyance and
amusement. He was so tremendously sure of himself. As though he read my
thoughts, he nodded gently.
“Oh, yes, mon ami, I would do what I say.” He got up and laid his hand on my
shoulder. His physiognomy underwent a complete change. Tears came into his
eyes. “In all this, you see, I think of that poor Mrs. Inglethorp who is dead. She
was not extravagantly loved—no. But she was very good to us Belgians—I owe
her a debt.”
I endeavoured to interrupt, but Poirot swept on.
“Let me tell you this, Hastings. She would never forgive me if I let Alfred
Inglethorp, her husband, be arrested now—when a word from me could save
him!”
CHAPTER VI.
THE INQUEST
In the interval before the inquest, Poirot was unfailing in his activity. Twice he
was closeted with Mr. Wells. He also took long walks into the country. I rather
resented his not taking me into his confidence, the more so as I could not in the
least guess what he was driving at.
It occurred to me that he might have been making inquiries at Raikes’s farm;
so, finding him out when I called at Leastways Cottage on Wednesday evening, I
walked over there by the fields, hoping to meet him. But there was no sign of
him, and I hesitated to go right up to the farm itself. As I walked away, I met an
aged rustic, who leered at me cunningly.
“You’m from the Hall, bain’t you?” he asked.
“Yes. I’m looking for a friend of mine whom I thought might have walked this
way.”
“A little chap? As waves his hands when he talks? One of them Belgies from
the village?”
“Yes,” I said eagerly. “He has been here, then?”
“Oh, ay, he’s been here, right enough. More’n once too. Friend of yours, is he?
Ah, you gentlemen from the Hall—you’m a pretty lot!” And he leered more
jocosely than ever.
“Why, do the gentlemen from the Hall come here often?” I asked, as
carelessly as I could.
He winked at me knowingly.
“One does, mister. Naming no names, mind. And a very liberal gentleman too!
Oh, thank you, sir, I’m sure.”
I walked on sharply. Evelyn Howard had been right then, and I experienced a
sharp twinge of disgust, as I thought of Alfred Inglethorp’s liberality with
another woman’s money. Had that piquant gipsy face been at the bottom of the
crime, or was it the baser mainspring of money? Probably a judicious mixture of
both.
On one point, Poirot seemed to have a curious obsession. He once or twice
observed to me that he thought Dorcas must have made an error in fixing the
time of the quarrel. He suggested to her repeatedly that it was four-thirty, and not
four o’clock when she had heard the voices.
But Dorcas was unshaken. Quite an hour, or even more, had elapsed between
the time when she had heard the voices and five o’clock, when she had taken tea
to her mistress.
The inquest was held on Friday at the Stylites Arms in the village. Poirot and I
sat together, not being required to give evidence.
The preliminaries were gone through. The jury viewed the body, and John
Cavendish gave evidence of identification.
Further questioned, he described his awakening in the early hours of the
morning, and the circumstances of his mother’s death.
The medical evidence was next taken. There was a breathless hush, and every
eye was fixed on the famous London specialist, who was known to be one of the
greatest authorities of the day on the subject of toxicology.
In a few brief words, he summed up the result of the post-mortem. Shorn of its
medical phraseology and technicalities, it amounted to the fact that Mrs.
Inglethorp had met her death as the result of strychnine poisoning. Judging from
the quantity recovered, she must have taken not less than three-quarters of a
grain of strychnine, but probably one grain or slightly over.
“Is it possible that she could have swallowed the poison by accident?” asked
the Coroner.
“I should consider it very unlikely. Strychnine is not used for domestic
purposes, as some poisons are, and there are restrictions placed on its sale.”
“Does anything in your examination lead you to determine how the poison
was administered?”
“No.”
“You arrived at Styles before Dr. Wilkins, I believe?”
“That is so. The motor met me just outside the lodge gates, and I hurried there
as fast as I could.”
“Will you relate to us exactly what happened next?”
“I entered Mrs. Inglethorp’s room. She was at that moment in a typical tetanic
convulsion. She turned towards me, and gasped out: ‘Alfred—Alfred——’”
“Could the strychnine have been administered in Mrs. Inglethorp’s after-
dinner coffee which was taken to her by her husband?”
“Possibly, but strychnine is a fairly rapid drug in its action. The symptoms
appear from one to two hours after it has been swallowed. It is retarded under
certain conditions, none of which, however, appear to have been present in this
case. I presume Mrs. Inglethorp took the coffee after dinner about eight o’clock,
whereas the symptoms did not manifest themselves until the early hours of the
morning, which, on the face of it, points to the drug having been taken much
later in the evening.”
“Mrs. Inglethorp was in the habit of drinking a cup of cocoa in the middle of
the night. Could the strychnine have been administered in that?”
“No, I myself took a sample of the cocoa remaining in the saucepan and had it
analysed. There was no strychnine present.”
I heard Poirot chuckle softly beside me.
“How did you know?” I whispered.
“Listen.”
“I should say”—the doctor was continuing—“that I would have been
considerably surprised at any other result.”
“Why?”
“Simply because strychnine has an unusually bitter taste. It can be detected in
a solution of one in seventy thousand, and can only be disguised by some
strongly flavoured substance. Cocoa would be quite powerless to mask it.”
One of the jury wanted to know if the same objection applied to coffee.
“No. Coffee has a bitter taste of its own which would probably cover the taste
of strychnine.”
“Then you consider it more likely that the drug was administered in the
coffee, but that for some unknown reason its action was delayed.”
“Yes, but, the cup being completely smashed, there is no possibility of
analyzing its contents.”
This concluded Dr. Bauerstein’s evidence. Dr. Wilkins corroborated it on all
points. Sounded as to the possibility of suicide, he repudiated it utterly. The
deceased, he said, suffered from a weak heart, but otherwise enjoyed perfect
health, and was of a cheerful and well-balanced disposition. She would be one of
the last people to take her own life.
Lawrence Cavendish was next called. His evidence was quite unimportant,
being a mere repetition of that of his brother. Just as he was about to step down,
he paused, and said rather hesitatingly:
“I should like to make a suggestion if I may?”
He glanced deprecatingly at the Coroner, who replied briskly:
“Certainly, Mr. Cavendish, we are here to arrive at the truth of this matter, and
welcome anything that may lead to further elucidation.”
“It is just an idea of mine,” explained Lawrence. “Of course I may be quite
wrong, but it still seems to me that my mother’s death might be accounted for by
natural means.”
“How do you make that out, Mr. Cavendish?”
“My mother, at the time of her death, and for some time before it, was taking a
tonic containing strychnine.”
“Ah!” said the Coroner.
The jury looked up, interested.
“I believe,” continued Lawrence, “that there have been cases where the
cumulative effect of a drug, administered for some time, has ended by causing
death. Also, is it not possible that she may have taken an overdose of her
medicine by accident?”
“This is the first we have heard of the deceased taking strychnine at the time
of her death. We are much obliged to you, Mr. Cavendish.”
Dr. Wilkins was recalled and ridiculed the idea.
“What Mr. Cavendish suggests is quite impossible. Any doctor would tell you
the same. Strychnine is, in a certain sense, a cumulative poison, but it would be
quite impossible for it to result in sudden death in this way. There would have to
be a long period of chronic symptoms which would at once have attracted my
attention. The whole thing is absurd.”
“And the second suggestion? That Mrs. Inglethorp may have inadvertently
taken an overdose?”
“Three, or even four doses, would not have resulted in death. Mrs. Inglethorp
always had an extra large amount of medicine made up at a time, as she dealt
with Coot’s, the Cash Chemists in Tadminster. She would have had to take very
nearly the whole bottle to account for the amount of strychnine found at the post-
mortem.”
“Then you consider that we may dismiss the tonic as not being in any way
instrumental in causing her death?”
“Certainly. The supposition is ridiculous.”
The same juryman who had interrupted before here suggested that the chemist
who made up the medicine might have committed an error.
“That, of course, is always possible,” replied the doctor.
But Dorcas, who was the next witness called, dispelled even that possibility.
The medicine had not been newly made up. On the contrary, Mrs. Inglethorp had
taken the last dose on the day of her death.
So the question of the tonic was finally abandoned, and the Coroner
proceeded with his task. Having elicited from Dorcas how she had been
awakened by the violent ringing of her mistress’s bell, and had subsequently
roused the household, he passed to the subject of the quarrel on the preceding
afternoon.
Dorcas’s evidence on this point was substantially what Poirot and I had
already heard, so I will not repeat it here.
The next witness was Mary Cavendish. She stood very upright, and spoke in a
low, clear, and perfectly composed voice. In answer to the Coroner’s question,
she told how, her alarm clock having aroused her at four-thirty as usual, she was
dressing, when she was startled by the sound of something heavy falling.
“That would have been the table by the bed?” commented the Coroner.
“I opened my door,” continued Mary, “and listened. In a few minutes a bell
rang violently. Dorcas came running down and woke my husband, and we all
went to my mother-in-law’s room, but it was locked——”
The Coroner interrupted her.
“I really do not think we need trouble you further on that point. We know all
that can be known of the subsequent happenings. But I should be obliged if you
would tell us all you overheard of the quarrel the day before.”
“I?”
There was a faint insolence in her voice. She raised her hand and adjusted the
ruffle of lace at her neck, turning her head a little as she did so. And quite
spontaneously the thought flashed across my mind: “She is gaining time!”
“Yes. I understand,” continued the Coroner deliberately, “that you were sitting
reading on the bench just outside the long window of the boudoir. That is so, is it
not?”
This was news to me and glancing sideways at Poirot, I fancied that it was
news to him as well.
There was the faintest pause, the mere hesitation of a moment, before she
answered:
“Yes, that is so.”
“And the boudoir window was open, was it not?”
Surely her face grew a little paler as she answered:
“Yes.”
“Then you cannot have failed to hear the voices inside, especially as they were
raised in anger. In fact, they would be more audible where you were than in the
hall.”
“Possibly.”
“Will you repeat to us what you overheard of the quarrel?”
“I really do not remember hearing anything.”
“Do you mean to say you did not hear voices?”
“Oh, yes, I heard the voices, but I did not hear what they said.” A faint spot of
colour came into her cheek. “I am not in the habit of listening to private
conversations.”
The Coroner persisted.
“And you remember nothing at all? Nothing, Mrs. Cavendish? Not one stray
word or phrase to make you realize that it was a private conversation?”
She paused, and seemed to reflect, still outwardly as calm as ever.
“Yes; I remember. Mrs. Inglethorp said something—I do not remember
exactly what—about causing scandal between husband and wife.”
“Ah!” the Coroner leant back satisfied. “That corresponds with what Dorcas
heard. But excuse me, Mrs. Cavendish, although you realized it was a private
conversation, you did not move away? You remained where you were?”
I caught the momentary gleam of her tawny eyes as she raised them. I felt
certain that at that moment she would willingly have torn the little lawyer, with
his insinuations, into pieces, but she replied quietly enough:
“No. I was very comfortable where I was. I fixed my mind on my book.”
“And that is all you can tell us?”
“That is all.”
The examination was over, though I doubted if the Coroner was entirely
satisfied with it. I think he suspected that Mary Cavendish could tell more if she
chose.
Amy Hill, shop assistant, was next called, and deposed to having sold a will
form on the afternoon of the 17th to William Earl, under-gardener at Styles.
William Earl and Manning succeeded her, and testified to witnessing a
document. Manning fixed the time at about four-thirty, William was of the
opinion that it was rather earlier.
Cynthia Murdoch came next. She had, however, little to tell. She had known
nothing of the tragedy, until awakened by Mrs. Cavendish.
“You did not hear the table fall?”
“No. I was fast asleep.”
The Coroner smiled.
“A good conscience makes a sound sleeper,” he observed. “Thank you, Miss
Murdoch, that is all.”
“Miss Howard.”
Miss Howard produced the letter written to her by Mrs. Inglethorp on the
evening of the 17th. Poirot and I had, of course already seen it. It added nothing
to our knowledge of the tragedy. The following is a facsimile:
STYLES COURT
ESSEX
hand written note:
July 17th
My dear Evelyn
Can we not bury
the hachet? I have
found it hard to forgive
the things you said
against my dear husband
but I am an old woman
& very fond of you
Yours affectionately,
Emily Inglethorpe
Dearest Evelyn:
‘You will be anxious at hearing nothing. It is all right—only it
will be to-night instead of last night. You understand. There’s a
good time coming once the old woman is dead and out of the
way. No one can possibly bring home the crime to me. That idea
of yours about the bromides was a stroke of genius! But we must
be very circumspect. A false step——’
“Here, my friends, the letter breaks off. Doubtless the writer was interrupted;
but there can be no question as to his identity. We all know this hand-writing and
——”
A howl that was almost a scream broke the silence.
“You devil! How did you get it?”
A chair was overturned. Poirot skipped nimbly aside. A quick movement on
his part, and his assailant fell with a crash.
“Messieurs, mesdames,” said Poirot, with a flourish, “let me introduce you to
the murderer, Mr. Alfred Inglethorp!”
CHAPTER XIII.
POIROT EXPLAINS
“Poirot, you old villain,” I said, “I’ve half a mind to strangle you! What do
you mean by deceiving me as you have done?”
We were sitting in the library. Several hectic days lay behind us. In the room
below, John and Mary were together once more, while Alfred Inglethorp and
Miss Howard were in custody. Now at last, I had Poirot to myself, and could
relieve my still burning curiosity.
Poirot did not answer me for a moment, but at last he said:
“I did not deceive you, mon ami. At most, I permitted you to deceive
yourself.”
“Yes, but why?”
“Well, it is difficult to explain. You see, my friend, you have a nature so
honest, and a countenance so transparent, that—enfin, to conceal your feelings is
impossible! If I had told you my ideas, the very first time you saw Mr. Alfred
Inglethorp that astute gentleman would have—in your so expressive idiom
—‘smelt a rat’! And then, bonjour to our chances of catching him!”
“I think that I have more diplomacy than you give me credit for.”
“My friend,” besought Poirot, “I implore you, do not enrage yourself! Your
help has been of the most invaluable. It is but the extremely beautiful nature that
you have, which made me pause.”
“Well,” I grumbled, a little mollified. “I still think you might have given me a
hint.”
“But I did, my friend. Several hints. You would not take them. Think now, did
I ever say to you that I believed John Cavendish guilty? Did I not, on the
contrary, tell you that he would almost certainly be acquitted?”
“Yes, but——”
“And did I not immediately afterwards speak of the difficulty of bringing the
murderer to justice? Was it not plain to you that I was speaking of two entirely
different persons?”
“No,” I said, “it was not plain to me!”
“Then again,” continued Poirot, “at the beginning, did I not repeat to you
several times that I didn’t want Mr. Inglethorp arrested now? That should have
conveyed something to you.”
“Do you mean to say you suspected him as long ago as that?”
“Yes. To begin with, whoever else might benefit by Mrs. Inglethorp’s death,
her husband would benefit the most. There was no getting away from that. When
I went up to Styles with you that first day, I had no idea as to how the crime had
been committed, but from what I knew of Mr. Inglethorp I fancied that it would
be very hard to find anything to connect him with it. When I arrived at the
château, I realized at once that it was Mrs. Inglethorp who had burnt the will;
and there, by the way, you cannot complain, my friend, for I tried my best to
force on you the significance of that bedroom fire in midsummer.”
“Yes, yes,” I said impatiently. “Go on.”
“Well, my friend, as I say, my views as to Mr. Inglethorp’s guilt were very
much shaken. There was, in fact, so much evidence against him that I was
inclined to believe that he had not done it.”
“When did you change your mind?”
“When I found that the more efforts I made to clear him, the more efforts he
made to get himself arrested. Then, when I discovered that Inglethorp had
nothing to do with Mrs. Raikes and that in fact it was John Cavendish who was
interested in that quarter, I was quite sure.”
“But why?”
“Simply this. If it had been Inglethorp who was carrying on an intrigue with
Mrs. Raikes, his silence was perfectly comprehensible. But, when I discovered
that it was known all over the village that it was John who was attracted by the
farmer’s pretty wife, his silence bore quite a different interpretation. It was
nonsense to pretend that he was afraid of the scandal, as no possible scandal
could attach to him. This attitude of his gave me furiously to think, and I was
slowly forced to the conclusion that Alfred Inglethorp wanted to be arrested. Eh
bien! from that moment, I was equally determined that he should not be
arrested.”
“Wait a minute. I don’t see why he wished to be arrested?”
“Because, mon ami, it is the law of your country that a man once acquitted can
never be tried again for the same offence. Aha! but it was clever—his idea!
Assuredly, he is a man of method. See here, he knew that in his position he was
bound to be suspected, so he conceived the exceedingly clever idea of preparing
a lot of manufactured evidence against himself. He wished to be arrested. He
would then produce his irreproachable alibi—and, hey presto, he was safe for
life!”
“But I still don’t see how he managed to prove his alibi, and yet go to the
chemist’s shop?”
Poirot stared at me in surprise.
“Is it possible? My poor friend! You have not yet realized that it was Miss
Howard who went to the chemist’s shop?”
“Miss Howard?”
“But, certainly. Who else? It was most easy for her. She is of a good height,
her voice is deep and manly; moreover, remember, she and Inglethorp are
cousins, and there is a distinct resemblance between them, especially in their gait
and bearing. It was simplicity itself. They are a clever pair!”
“I am still a little fogged as to how exactly the bromide business was done,” I
remarked.
“Bon! I will reconstruct for you as far as possible. I am inclined to think that
Miss Howard was the master mind in that affair. You remember her once
mentioning that her father was a doctor? Possibly she dispensed his medicines
for him, or she may have taken the idea from one of the many books lying about
when Mademoiselle Cynthia was studying for her exam. Anyway, she was
familiar with the fact that the addition of a bromide to a mixture containing
strychnine would cause the precipitation of the latter. Probably the idea came to
her quite suddenly. Mrs. Inglethorp had a box of bromide powders, which she
occasionally took at night. What could be easier than quietly to dissolve one or
more of those powders in Mrs. Inglethorp’s large sized bottle of medicine when
it came from Coot’s? The risk is practically nil. The tragedy will not take place
until nearly a fortnight later. If anyone has seen either of them touching the
medicine, they will have forgotten it by that time. Miss Howard will have
engineered her quarrel, and departed from the house. The lapse of time, and her
absence, will defeat all suspicion. Yes, it was a clever idea! If they had left it
alone, it is possible the crime might never have been brought home to them. But
they were not satisfied. They tried to be too clever—and that was their undoing.”
Poirot puffed at his tiny cigarette, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.
“They arranged a plan to throw suspicion on John Cavendish, by buying
strychnine at the village chemist’s, and signing the register in his hand-writing.
“On Monday Mrs. Inglethorp will take the last dose of her medicine. On
Monday, therefore, at six o’clock, Alfred Inglethorp arranges to be seen by a
number of people at a spot far removed from the village. Miss Howard has
previously made up a cock and bull story about him and Mrs. Raikes to account
for his holding his tongue afterwards. At six o’clock, Miss Howard, disguised as
Alfred Inglethorp, enters the chemist’s shop, with her story about a dog, obtains
the strychnine, and writes the name of Alfred Inglethorp in John’s handwriting,
which she had previously studied carefully.
“But, as it will never do if John, too, can prove an alibi, she writes him an
anonymous note—still copying his hand-writing—which takes him to a remote
spot where it is exceedingly unlikely that anyone will see him.
“So far, all goes well. Miss Howard goes back to Middlingham. Alfred
Inglethorp returns to Styles. There is nothing that can compromise him in any
way, since it is Miss Howard who has the strychnine, which, after all, is only
wanted as a blind to throw suspicion on John Cavendish.
“But now a hitch occurs. Mrs. Inglethorp does not take her medicine that
night. The broken bell, Cynthia’s absence—arranged by Inglethorp through his
wife—all these are wasted. And then—he makes his slip.
“Mrs. Inglethorp is out, and he sits down to write to his accomplice, who, he
fears, may be in a panic at the non-success of their plan. It is probable that Mrs.
Inglethorp returned earlier than he expected. Caught in the act, and somewhat
flurried he hastily shuts and locks his desk. He fears that if he remains in the
room he may have to open it again, and that Mrs. Inglethorp might catch sight of
the letter before he could snatch it up. So he goes out and walks in the woods,
little dreaming that Mrs. Inglethorp will open his desk, and discover the
incriminating document.
“But this, as we know, is what happened. Mrs. Inglethorp reads it, and
becomes aware of the perfidy of her husband and Evelyn Howard, though,
unfortunately, the sentence about the bromides conveys no warning to her mind.
She knows that she is in danger—but is ignorant of where the danger lies. She
decides to say nothing to her husband, but sits down and writes to her solicitor,
asking him to come on the morrow, and she also determines to destroy
immediately the will which she has just made. She keeps the fatal letter.”
“It was to discover that letter, then, that her husband forced the lock of the
despatch-case?”
“Yes, and from the enormous risk he ran we can see how fully he realized its
importance. That letter excepted, there was absolutely nothing to connect him
with the crime.”
“There’s only one thing I can’t make out, why didn’t he destroy it at once
when he got hold of it?”
“Because he did not dare take the biggest risk of all—that of keeping it on his
own person.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Look at it from his point of view. I have discovered that there were only five
short minutes in which he could have taken it—the five minutes immediately
before our own arrival on the scene, for before that time Annie was brushing the
stairs, and would have seen anyone who passed going to the right wing. Figure
to yourself the scene! He enters the room, unlocking the door by means of one of
the other doorkeys—they were all much alike. He hurries to the despatch-case—
it is locked, and the keys are nowhere to be seen. That is a terrible blow to him,
for it means that his presence in the room cannot be concealed as he had hoped.
But he sees clearly that everything must be risked for the sake of that damning
piece of evidence. Quickly, he forces the lock with a penknife, and turns over the
papers until he finds what he is looking for.
“But now a fresh dilemma arises: he dare not keep that piece of paper on him.
He may be seen leaving the room—he may be searched. If the paper is found on
him, it is certain doom. Probably, at this minute, too, he hears the sounds below
of Mr. Wells and John leaving the boudoir. He must act quickly. Where can he
hide this terrible slip of paper? The contents of the waste-paper-basket are kept
and in any case, are sure to be examined. There are no means of destroying it;
and he dare not keep it. He looks round, and he sees—what do you think, mon
ami?”
I shook my head.
“In a moment, he has torn the letter into long thin strips, and rolling them up
into spills he thrusts them hurriedly in amongst the other spills in the vase on the
mantle-piece.”
I uttered an exclamation.
“No one would think of looking there,” Poirot continued. “And he will be
able, at his leisure, to come back and destroy this solitary piece of evidence
against him.”
“Then, all the time, it was in the spill vase in Mrs. Inglethorp’s bedroom,
under our very noses?” I cried.
Poirot nodded.
“Yes, my friend. That is where I discovered my ‘last link,’ and I owe that very
fortunate discovery to you.”
“To me?”
“Yes. Do you remember telling me that my hand shook as I was straightening
the ornaments on the mantelpiece?”
“Yes, but I don’t see——”
“No, but I saw. Do you know, my friend, I remembered that earlier in the
morning, when we had been there together, I had straightened all the objects on
the mantelpiece. And, if they were already straightened, there would be no need
to straighten them again, unless, in the meantime, someone else had touched
them.”
“Dear me,” I murmured, “so that is the explanation of your extraordinary
behaviour. You rushed down to Styles, and found it still there?”
“Yes, and it was a race for time.”
“But I still can’t understand why Inglethorp was such a fool as to leave it there
when he had plenty of opportunity to destroy it.”
“Ah, but he had no opportunity. I saw to that.”
“You?”
“Yes. Do you remember reproving me for taking the household into my
confidence on the subject?”
“Yes.”
“Well, my friend, I saw there was just one chance. I was not sure then if
Inglethorp was the criminal or not, but if he was I reasoned that he would not
have the paper on him, but would have hidden it somewhere, and by enlisting the
sympathy of the household I could effectually prevent his destroying it. He was
already under suspicion, and by making the matter public I secured the services
of about ten amateur detectives, who would be watching him unceasingly, and
being himself aware of their watchfulness he would not dare seek further to
destroy the document. He was therefore forced to depart from the house, leaving
it in the spill vase.”
“But surely Miss Howard had ample opportunities of aiding him.”
“Yes, but Miss Howard did not know of the paper’s existence. In accordance
with their prearranged plan, she never spoke to Alfred Inglethorp. They were
supposed to be deadly enemies, and until John Cavendish was safely convicted
they neither of them dared risk a meeting. Of course I had a watch kept on Mr.
Inglethorp, hoping that sooner or later he would lead me to the hiding-place. But
he was too clever to take any chances. The paper was safe where it was; since no
one had thought of looking there in the first week, it was not likely they would
do so afterwards. But for your lucky remark, we might never have been able to
bring him to justice.”
“I understand that now; but when did you first begin to suspect Miss
Howard?”
“When I discovered that she had told a lie at the inquest about the letter she
had received from Mrs. Inglethorp.”
“Why, what was there to lie about?”
“You saw that letter? Do you recall its general appearance?”
“Yes—more or less.”
“You will recollect, then, that Mrs. Inglethorp wrote a very distinctive hand,
and left large clear spaces between her words. But if you look at the date at the
top of the letter you will notice that ‘July 17th’ is quite different in this respect.
Do you see what I mean?”
“No,” I confessed, “I don’t.”
“You do not see that that letter was not written on the 17th, but on the 7th—
the day after Miss Howard’s departure? The ‘1’ was written in before the ‘7’ to
turn it into the ‘17th’.”
“But why?”
“That is exactly what I asked myself. Why does Miss Howard suppress the
letter written on the 17th, and produce this faked one instead? Because she did
not wish to show the letter of the 17th. Why, again? And at once a suspicion
dawned in my mind. You will remember my saying that it was wise to beware of
people who were not telling you the truth.”
“And yet,” I cried indignantly, “after that, you gave me two reasons why Miss
Howard could not have committed the crime!”
“And very good reasons too,” replied Poirot. “For a long time they were a
stumbling-block to me until I remembered a very significant fact: that she and
Alfred Inglethorp were cousins. She could not have committed the crime single-
handed, but the reasons against that did not debar her from being an accomplice.
And, then, there was that rather over-vehement hatred of hers! It concealed a
very opposite emotion. There was, undoubtedly, a tie of passion between them
long before he came to Styles. They had already arranged their infamous plot—
that he should marry this rich, but rather foolish old lady, induce her to make a
will leaving her money to him, and then gain their ends by a very cleverly
conceived crime. If all had gone as they planned, they would probably have left
England, and lived together on their poor victim’s money.
“They are a very astute and unscrupulous pair. While suspicion was to be
directed against him, she would be making quiet preparations for a very different
dénouement. She arrives from Middlingham with all the compromising items in
her possession. No suspicion attaches to her. No notice is paid to her coming and
going in the house. She hides the strychnine and glasses in John’s room. She puts
the beard in the attic. She will see to it that sooner or later they are duly
discovered.”
“I don’t quite see why they tried to fix the blame on John,” I remarked. “It
would have been much easier for them to bring the crime home to Lawrence.”
“Yes, but that was mere chance. All the evidence against him arose out of pure
accident. It must, in fact, have been distinctly annoying to the pair of schemers.”
“His manner was unfortunate,” I observed thoughtfully.
“Yes. You realize, of course, what was at the back of that?”
“No.”
“You did not understand that he believed Mademoiselle Cynthia guilty of the
crime?”
“No,” I exclaimed, astonished. “Impossible!”
“Not at all. I myself nearly had the same idea. It was in my mind when I asked
Mr. Wells that first question about the will. Then there were the bromide
powders which she had made up, and her clever male impersonations, as Dorcas
recounted them to us. There was really more evidence against her than anyone
else.”
“You are joking, Poirot!”
“No. Shall I tell you what made Monsieur Lawrence turn so pale when he first
entered his mother’s room on the fatal night? It was because, whilst his mother
lay there, obviously poisoned, he saw, over your shoulder, that the door into
Mademoiselle Cynthia’s room was unbolted.”
“But he declared that he saw it bolted!” I cried.
“Exactly,” said Poirot dryly. “And that was just what confirmed my suspicion
that it was not. He was shielding Mademoiselle Cynthia.”
“But why should he shield her?”
“Because he is in love with her.”
I laughed.
“There, Poirot, you are quite wrong! I happen to know for a fact that, far from
being in love with her, he positively dislikes her.”
“Who told you that, mon ami?”
“Cynthia herself.”
“La pauvre petite! And she was concerned?”
“She said that she did not mind at all.”
“Then she certainly did mind very much,” remarked Poirot. “They are like
that—les femmes!”
“What you say about Lawrence is a great surprise to me,” I said.
“But why? It was most obvious. Did not Monsieur Lawrence make the sour
face every time Mademoiselle Cynthia spoke and laughed with his brother? He
had taken it into his long head that Mademoiselle Cynthia was in love with
Monsieur John. When he entered his mother’s room, and saw her obviously
poisoned, he jumped to the conclusion that Mademoiselle Cynthia knew
something about the matter. He was nearly driven desperate. First he crushed the
coffee-cup to powder under his feet, remembering that she had gone up with his
mother the night before, and he determined that there should be no chance of
testing its contents. Thenceforward, he strenuously, and quite uselessly, upheld
the theory of ‘Death from natural causes’.”
“And what about the ‘extra coffee-cup’?”
“I was fairly certain that it was Mrs. Cavendish who had hidden it, but I had to
make sure. Monsieur Lawrence did not know at all what I meant; but, on
reflection, he came to the conclusion that if he could find an extra coffee-cup
anywhere his lady love would be cleared of suspicion. And he was perfectly
right.”
“One thing more. What did Mrs. Inglethorp mean by her dying words?”
“They were, of course, an accusation against her husband.”
“Dear me, Poirot,” I said with a sigh, “I think you have explained everything.
I am glad it has all ended so happily. Even John and his wife are reconciled.”
“Thanks to me.”
“How do you mean—thanks to you?”
“My dear friend, do you not realize that it was simply and solely the trial
which has brought them together again? That John Cavendish still loved his
wife, I was convinced. Also, that she was equally in love with him. But they had
drifted very far apart. It all arose from a misunderstanding. She married him
without love. He knew it. He is a sensitive man in his way, he would not force
himself upon her if she did not want him. And, as he withdrew, her love awoke.
But they are both unusually proud, and their pride held them inexorably apart.
He drifted into an entanglement with Mrs. Raikes, and she deliberately
cultivated the friendship of Dr. Bauerstein. Do you remember the day of John
Cavendish’s arrest, when you found me deliberating over a big decision?”
“Yes, I quite understood your distress.”
“Pardon me, mon ami, but you did not understand it in the least. I was trying
to decide whether or not I would clear John Cavendish at once. I could have
cleared him—though it might have meant a failure to convict the real criminals.
They were entirely in the dark as to my real attitude up to the very last moment
—which partly accounts for my success.”
“Do you mean that you could have saved John Cavendish from being brought
to trial?”
“Yes, my friend. But I eventually decided in favour of ‘a woman’s happiness’.
Nothing but the great danger through which they have passed could have
brought these two proud souls together again.”
I looked at Poirot in silent amazement. The colossal cheek of the little man!
Who on earth but Poirot would have thought of a trial for murder as a restorer of
conjugal happiness!
“I perceive your thoughts, mon ami,” said Poirot, smiling at me. “No one but
Hercule Poirot would have attempted such a thing! And you are wrong in
condemning it. The happiness of one man and one woman is the greatest thing in
all the world.”
His words took me back to earlier events. I remembered Mary as she lay white
and exhausted on the sofa, listening, listening. There had come the sound of the
bell below. She had started up. Poirot had opened the door, and meeting her
agonized eyes had nodded gently. “Yes, madame,” he said. “I have brought him
back to you.” He had stood aside, and as I went out I had seen the look in Mary’s
eyes, as John Cavendish had caught his wife in his arms.
“Perhaps you are right, Poirot,” I said gently. “Yes, it is the greatest thing in
the world.”
Suddenly, there was a tap at the door, and Cynthia peeped in.
“I—I only——”
“Come in,” I said, springing up.
She came in, but did not sit down.
“I—only wanted to tell you something——”
“Yes?”
Cynthia fidgeted with a little tassel for some moments, then, suddenly
exclaiming: “You dears!” kissed first me and then Poirot, and rushed out of the
room again.
“What on earth does this mean?” I asked, surprised.
It was very nice to be kissed by Cynthia, but the publicity of the salute rather
impaired the pleasure.
“It means that she has discovered Monsieur Lawrence does not dislike her as
much as she thought,” replied Poirot philosophically.
“But——”
“Here he is.”
Lawrence at that moment passed the door.
“Eh! Monsieur Lawrence,” called Poirot. “We must congratulate you, is it not
so?”
Lawrence blushed, and then smiled awkwardly. A man in love is a sorry
spectacle. Now Cynthia had looked charming.
I sighed.
“What is it, mon ami?”
“Nothing,” I said sadly. “They are two delightful women!”
“And neither of them is for you?” finished Poirot. “Never mind. Console
yourself, my friend. We may hunt together again, who knows? And then——”
THE END
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